


Silver Clouds with Grey Linings

by Flames_and_Jade



Series: Wartime Pete & Patrick AU [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, Adrenaline Junkie Pete, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst and Feels, Dealing With Loss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Couple, Minor Character Death, Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Smut, Wartime Romance, adjusting to change, cute nerdy music teacher Patrick, going back to school, wartime banter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 68,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: Set after "The War is Won"--Patrick has finished his degree at SDSU and teaches Pre-K while Pete continues on his cycle of deployments with the SEAL team he now leads. But after two years of marriage...something's different on this homecoming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Friends!!! I'm back, and I hope you'll go on another journey with me down this road with my military brand of Peterick. Thank you to all for the kind words and encouragement to write this next bit, I so appreciate you!! This story is going to have a good bit of angst, so I hope you'll have some tissues ready...but I promise it'll have a happy ending in the end!!!

 

_ It never got any easier. No matter how many times he’d stood there, it still hurt. _

 

_ No matter how many times he’d let Pete’s hand slip from his own for what he knew could be the last time, it still made him want to scream, to beg, to cry for him to stay. Every time he would reach out unconsciously, like he could drag him back to him--to safety, to sun-filled days and tender nights. _

 

_ No matter how many times he’d taken the first breath of alone, it still seemed to freeze in his lungs. It was like he knew that this moment was the one that would stretch out until he could breathe again, until he could fill his lungs with “you’re here,” rather than these short, panting gasps of “he’s gone.” He would take this breath over and over, sometimes counting it out as he tried to fight through the terror and the panic and the bone-deep ache of missing him so much it would make him curl up around his breaking heart.  _

 

_ No matter how many times he opened his phone, praying that there would be an email from Pete saying he was safe, his heart would still clench and then shatter each time his inbox still sat at zero. Or how many times he was woken from a dead sleep in the middle of the night to the distinctive ringtone he had set for Pete’s satellite phone, shaking hands drunk on sleep trying desperately to hit the answer button. Sometimes Pete’s voice would spill from the phone with a “hey, hot stuff” and Patrick would feel like he could relax for the first time, his heart unclenching from a continual spiral of fear. Or sometimes he would hear static and Pete’s voice, garbled beyond recognition as the connection disintegrated, and he would clutch the phone, running on half-awake legs to the window in the hope the connection would magically strengthen even though he knew it was futile. Inevitably the line would go dead...and he would fight back tears, his chest squeezing in crushing desperation to just hear his voice, to just know if he was alright.  _

 

_ No matter how many birthday parties or weddings he would go to alone, it still felt like someone was stabbing him. He’d lost count of how many times he’d fly back to Chicago for Christmases and have to plaster on a smile and say over and over “No, Pete didn’t come with me, he’s deployed right now” and have to endure the pain of people’s well-intentioned but ceaselessly frustrating consolations. It almost felt normal, to experience things and send another yearning call out to the universe, hoping that somehow Pete could hear his heart whispering “I wish you were here.”  _

 

_ But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’d never trade a minute of the heartbreak for what he had. He would take every endless night spent with his thoughts in a never-ending whirlpool, circling around the thought that was too painful, too terrifying, too unimaginable to even think about. He would take every goodbye because it meant that he would get to stand here--here with the crowd of SEAL wives who were waiting for their men to pour through the security checkpoint like a flood of tanned, dusty, tired, smiling home. He would almost always end up holding one of Garcia’s kids on his shoulders, because it wasn’t like there weren’t enough of them who were all clamoring who would see their Papi first. But then the doors would open and he would carefully drop the yelling tornado of a kid from his shoulders so they could barrel forward to pile on Barney, and he would see Pete--his eyes searching the crowd and laughing at the way his best friend went down as his brood tackled him, or catcalling as Kelsea tackled Long. But then his eyes would find Patrick, and he could see as Pete let out a small breath, relief lighting up his face as he went around the writhing pile of Garcia’s and ran to his husband. Arms sheathed in rough multicam would wrap around him and Patrick would press his face to Pete’s neck and take his first breath of HE’S SAFE HE’S HOME WE MADE IT...and everything was worth it. Pete would pull back and press a kiss to his lips filled with months of longing and love and Patrick didn’t care about the heartbreak, didn’t care who saw or who wondered or who judged...because his husband was home.  _

_ And every time, Pete would pull away once they were both dangerously close to either dying of asphyxiation or tearing each other’s clothes off in the airport, and smile. It was a smile so blinding and so perfectly happy, he would look at Patrick like he was the first water he’d seen in a year and say with whiskey eyes sparkling with joy and mirth,  _

 

_ “Well aren’t you the hottest SEAL wife in the whole damn world.” _

 

~//~

 

Drumming his hands on his fingertips, Patrick looked around the assorted wives and tried to stave off the panic attack that was fluttering with increased vigor around his chest as each second passed. These women were like a second family--a family he had never realized he would inherit when he married Pete. Being the only man present at Spouse’s breakfasts he heard it all--whose kid was wetting the bed because of separation anxiety, whose wife couldn’t mow her lawn because she was on bedrest, whose mother was coming out to help watch the kids. He ended up helping almost every one of them in one way or another during the deployments, babysitting kids during a doctor’s appointment or fixing the washer when it started knocking unevenly or even dashing over to kill a spider for Kelsea. 

 

But today there was very little laughter, just nervous glances and hushed questions. They had all received the same call from the Support Staff front office, simply telling them that their spouses would be landing at San Diego International at 4:55pm, and not to bring their children. Nobody had any other information--Patrick had gotten a garbled call from Pete at 9pm the night before, but it had been so filled with static he had no idea what he had tried to say. He mused that Pete’s promotion to be the leader of the the SEAL team since Chief Edward’s retirement had its perks--the satellite phone being one of them. But he couldn’t help the feeling of dread as they all waited anxiously at the security doors, watching. Just as worrying was the small knot of highly-ranked Naval officers standing just to the left of the group, hats in their hands as they spoke in hushed tones. Barney’s wife Evelyn had gone to try to ask them what they knew, what was going on, but she had been solidly rebuffed and came back to the huddle cursing under her breath in Spanish. 

 

Kelsea came to stand next to him, blue eyes wide. “I’m so worried.” She whispered and he pulled her close as she spun her wedding ring around and around. 

 

“Me too.” He didn’t know what else to say, he didn’t want to say it would all be alright when they all that wasn’t something any of them could know with certainty. He rubbed her shoulder, the repetitive motion calming them both, and he said the only thing he knew he could promise. “We’ll all get through it together, though.”

 

Then the doors  _ wooshed _ open and his head shot up. Cooper walked through, one arm in a sling, silent and grim. His wife started to move forward, but Cooper held up a hand to forestall her with a sharp shake of his head. Turning to face the doors, he snapped to a rigid position of attention, and Patrick felt himself start to shake.  _ What if-- _ his mind started reeling, screaming  _ No, Pete called you last night, he’s fine, he’s safe!! _ But a small voice taunted him, steely and unforgiving,  _ It’s just a phone, anyone could have made that call...you didn’t hear anything... _

 

“Atten- _ SHUN!” _ Cooper barked, and he snapped right hand up in a salute. Patrick saw out of the corner of his eye that the huddle of stars and chevrons and eagle-epauletted officers had moved into a line flanking Cooper. 

 

_ Please let Pete be alright. _

 

The doors slid open, and the SEAL team moved through, silently bearing a coffin draped in the Stars and Stripes. It seemed like time froze as every single person frantically searched for their husband in the flanking six pallbearers…

 

_ “Oh my god, NO!”  _ Naomi’s shrill voice split the silence, and it was like time suddenly snapped back from where it had stopped, tumbling back on them like a tidal wave. Kelsea sobbed as she moved out of Patrick’s arms to grab the young woman--the newest member of their little circle of wives--and Patrick realized his feet were moving, he was grabbing Naomi when her knees buckled. She started wailing into his chest, fighting uselessly and weakly to get away as he held her. But his eyes were locked on Pete--who had a bandage wrapped around his head and whose jaw was clenched shut like a pitbull. 

 

_ Please look at me. _ Patrick prayed silently to whoever would listen, but Pete’s eyes remained fixed ahead as he carried the coffin through the line of stiffly-saluting officers and out to the hearse none of them had seen arrive. They all moved out to the bright California sunshine as the men loaded the body of their youngest member into the back of the vehicle, most of the women crying. A black car pulled up and Cooper and his wife ushered a weeping Naomi into it, climbing in silently with her, several of the officers following.

Then they were gone...and the wives were left to cautiously approach their husbands who dropped their salutes once the duo of cars were out of sight. Pete didn’t move, he didn’t turn around, and Patrick waited silently as each of the men slumped and found their wife, wrapping them up in an embrace that said so much more than  _ I missed you _ and he prayed for Pete to turn around.

 

A bird chirped in the distance as Patrick carefully approached Pete, who was standing with his hands clenched at his side. Barney walked by and gave Patrick a look full of sadness and caution, and he couldn’t help the sense of fear that filled his heart.

 

“Pete?” Coming around, he saw that his eyes were closed, his lips pressed together into a thin line. Gently, Patrick reached out to touch his shoulder, but as soon as his fingers met the fabric of his blouse, Pete flinched like he’d been burned, eyes opening blank and unseeing as he hurtled away from Patrick, stumbling towards the flower beds that flanked the airport doors. His knees buckled and he fell on all fours, dry heaving into the roots of a Bird of Paradise plant before vomiting up the contents of his stomach. 

 

Approaching carefully, hands held out like he was approaching a cornered and wounded dog, Patrick crouched down next to his husband and started to gently rub his back. He heard Pete whispering as he pressed his face into the dirt next to the contents of his stomach...and then his heart broke as he heard the phrase Pete was saying over and over. 

 

_ All my fault. All my fault. All my fault.  _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pieces fall into place....some hurt as they tumble down, some click together silently, some feel like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY it's been a literal age since I left you all in the puddle of angst!!! BBB took over my life =( But the big push is past, so hopefully I'll be updating all my *many* WIP's more regularly now *cries at unfinished stories piling up* Thank you for the lovely comments and for the love, and I hope you don't hate me too much! <3

 

_ Pete had locked himself in the bathroom as soon as they got home, leaving Patrick to plead and beg from outside, helplessly holding back his own tears as he listened to his husband sob. Eventually he had fallen asleep curled up next to the door frame but he had woken up in bed with his glasses folded on the nightstand, alone. The next few days had been a flurry of loneliness and heartache--Pete had been gone the majority of the time to hearings and briefings and debriefings and appointments. He had refused to talk to Patrick about what had happened, either yelling at him to leave him alone, it was too loud, he just needed to THINK...or he would look up at him with wide brown eyes full of tears and whisper a soft “I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” and curl into him, gasping for air and shaking. On the third day, Patrick had given in and texted Kelsea to asked what was going on. She had called and told him in hushed tones that her husband hadn’t told her much, but there had been a raid and that Chase Mardoux had been shot by a sniper. She had sniffed, tears making her voice thick with emotion, and whispered, “Kyle said they never saw it coming. It was like one second they were all good and the next, Chase was on the ground.”  _

 

_ The car ride to the service had been silent, Pete’s hands gripped tightly on the wheel as they drove. Patrick noticed that he would twitch whenever they would go over a pothole, that he was glancing up at the rearview mirror with almost manic frequency. He tried once to tell Pete about something one of his preschoolers had said, but received only a nod in response, so he just said nothing…counting the power-poles and trying to breathe slowly.  _

 

_ The service was short, and afterwards the SEALs carried the hearse the short distance to the gravesite with precision, lowering it onto the mechanical housing carefully. The Chaplain said a short prayer, and Patrick couldn’t help but flinch as he stood with the group of wives as the Honor Guard fired off the twenty-one gun salute. He looked over at Pete, standing rigidly at attention with his jaw clenched and a look of ferocious blankness on his face, and he rubbed Kelsea’s back just to give his shaking hands something to do. The flag was folded and all of their hearts ached as it was given to a silent, pale-faced Naomi, who clasped it like it was the last bit of her composure. But then he took a deep breath--he had known this was coming. Long approached the casket, arms stiff by his sides for a long moment and Kelsea stiffened next to Patrick, standing up straight and raising her chin, almost like she was trying to echo her husband’s composure in solidarity.  He reached up with a crisp, sharp movement and pulled the SEAL Eagle-and-Trident insignia off his chest and settled it at the foot of the casket. With a sound that echoed off the green, grassy hills of the cemetery, he lifted his closed fist and brought it down, hammering the golden pin into the dark wood of the coffin. Stepping back, he rendered a crisp salute, lowering his hand slowly, like a goodbye. Then he turned and stepped back in line as one by one, Steele, Hileston, Widman, Garcia, Cooper...each stepped forward to pound their own insignia into the last resting place of their friend, their brother. Pete was the last, moving forward slowly and Patrick ached to see the way his shoulders were settled, stiff yet with the barest curl to them. He pounded his badge into the wood at the head of the casket and stepped back, rendering a final salute to his teammate...to the young man he had led into combat. To the young man he had lost.  _

 

~//~

 

That week after Pete’s return was unlike any other homecoming they’d experienced before. There was no rush to get to the privacy of their bedroom and tear each other’s clothes off, to spend all night talking and laughing and re-acquainting themselves with each other. There was no day spent in pajamas with long showers and wandering hands and Pete devouring an entire T-Rex pizza while Patrick laughed. There was no Saturday night barbecue with Hielston’s burgers and Long’s drunken flirtations and whatever challenge Cooper could devise to celebrate their safe return.

 

Instead Patrick was sitting on the side of the tub twisting his wedding ring around and around as he looked down at Pete, who was curled into a half-clothed ball, the water raining down on his shivering form. The outer parts of uniform were scattered across the floor and steam curled around them like a blanket. He kept reaching out to touch Pete and then pulling his hand back, not sure what to do--it had been a fifty/fifty chance since his return if he would flinch away or if he would cling and shake. Finally he decided it couldn’t get any worse and gently ran his fingers soothingly through Pete’s hair, carding the wet strands through his fingers. For a long moment, Pete didn’t do anything but he also didn’t pull away...so Patrick just kept it up. But then a hand shot out like lightning, pulling Patrick’s hand to his chest, nearly pulling him into the porcelain bowl with him. Maneuvering carefully, Patrick sat down on the floor next to the tub, so his arm was in with Pete and he sighed, heart breaking all over again. 

 

Today had been the hearing to determine if Pete had been derelict in his duties as the SEAL team leader, if he would be stripped of his position or if he had just been unlucky enough to lose one of his men to the horrors of war. Patrick hadn’t been allowed to attend, as it was a closed courtroom for the Special Military Tribunal...but it had been mercifully quick. Ten minutes after the doors shut, they opened again and Pete walked out stiffly, almost like he was marching. Patrick caught Chief Edward’s eye, and the retired Team Lead had given him a small smile and a discreet thumbs up--and Patrick had felt his heart shed one of the many weights holding it down. Pete’s life was the SEALs...to lose it, to lose his position and his team would have been a blow Patrick didn’t think he could have borne. But Pete had driven them both home in silence, curtly rebuffing Patrick’s cautious attempts to talk to him. Once they were inside though...Pete’s dress uniform items came off in a hasty trail that led towards the bathroom, but this time he left the door ajar. Patrick followed him, watching in silence as Pete turned the water on full-blast with shaking hands and climbed in, curling into a ball on the floor of the tub with the hot water raining down on him. Unsure what to do other than to just  _ be there _ , Patrick had sat...watching Pete shake and then calm down, like an endless wave of nerves and heartbreak. They stayed like that for a while, neither speaking, and he tried to at least be grateful that Pete was at least letting him close....but then his mind snapped back to the present as his husband began to shake again, mumbling. “Can’t get warm.” Pete’s voice was soft, but Patrick couldn’t contain his own gasp. It had been so long since Pete spoke and sounded like  _ him _ . Like the man he knew and loved, not the brisque and efficient military commander. “‘Trick...I’m so cold.” 

 

Nodding, Patrick helped him sit up, unbuttoning his dress shirt and pulling it off. He took the showerhead down from its perch to run the warm water against his skin and Pete sighed, the shaking stopping finally as he allowed Patrick to wash him, buffing his skin till it was pink and warm. He was silent, compliant as Patrick turned the water off and pulled a towel from the shelf, wrapping it around his husband’s shoulders and helping him out and chafing him dry. He bundled him into pajamas and to bed, leaving only to make them both a hot cup of green tea.  Pete drank his, holding the mug tightly with his head on Patrick’s shoulder as they pretended to watch some program on the TV about elephants in Malaysia. 

 

Then Pete curled around him, taking a shuddering breath as he buried his head in his chest and drifted to sleep...holding each other like a liferaft.

  
  


~//~

 

The next morning, Pete woke to find Patrick fully dressed next to him on the bed, messing around on his computer.

 

“Who are you and what did you do with my husband?” Pete mumbled, burrowing into Patrick’s side. 

 

“Oh! You’re up.” Patrick shut the computer and pushed Pete away, ignoring his grumbling protests. “Come on. We’re going on a hike.”    
  


“Don’t wanna.” He knew he was being petulant and ridiculous...but he didn’t care. He just wanted to bury back into Patrick’s side and live there forever, but apparently someone had replaced his husband with a shapeshifting evil overlord because his husband was having none of it. 

 

“Nope. Get up. Come on.” He stood and threw a stack of clothes and boots at Pete before grabbing a worn trucker hat from the nightstand, settling it on his head and then putting his hands on his hips. “I’ll push you out of bed and drag you to the car if I have to.” 

 

With a loud sigh, Pete glared and began to get dressed. 

 

~//~

 

Patrick hadn’t said much as they climbed up South Fortuna Peak, picking his way up the gentle slope and leaving Pete to his own thoughts. The air was warm without being hot, the breeze definitely cool and welcome as they moved up, up, up. It felt  _ good _ , he admitted to be out, to be in the sunshine without the pressure of a mission or the weight of sixty pounds of combat gear. It  _ smelled _ good, too--the constant smell of burning diesel and open sewage replaced with sea air and pine. This was the closest to happy he’d felt since coming back, and while he had no idea what was in the rucksack that Patrick had refused to let him carry (he’d glared and argued  _ I’ve work out too, I’m fine  _ when he tried to take it) he realized he didn’t care. It was  _ damn nice _ to not have to care about anything but where to put his foot next as they climbed. 

 

He looked up to see Patrick scrambling up a large boulder before putting his hands on his lower back and stretching, and he couldn’t help the grin that quirked his lips as he noticed the way his ass looked in his khaki cargo shorts. But then a flood of remorse hit him as his mind unhelpfully reminded him that Naomi would never get to appreciate her husband’s body ever again. He gasped, waving Patrick off when he sent him a concerned glance, and concentrated on breathing through his nose and not crying for the last two hundred feet. 

 

They reached the top and he saw a satisfied smile cross Patrick’s lips as he set the rucksack down. Unfastening the straps--it was an olive green one that he had stolen from Pete soon after they had married, attaching musical pun buttons to the canvas surface and an In-N-Out keychain to one of the D-rings--he pulled out a blanket. Settling it down on one of the rocks, he sat down and pulled two packs of pop-tarts, a little cheese-and-salami pack and some trail mix from from the bag and patted the space next to him. 

 

“Picnic, huh?” Pete asked, proud of his voice for not shaking as another wave of  _ Naomidoesn’tgetthisallmyfault  _ rushed over him as he sat. Patrick just shrugged, wrapping a piece of cured sausage around a cheese square and moving to lay on his stomach on the warm rock. 

 

“It’s usually easier to talk about shitty things when you have something to look at.” He stated, and opened one of the pop-tarts, breaking off a corner delicately. Pete felt a lump in his throat at the way he didn’t push, didn’t nag...but made it clear in the most low-threat way that they  _ were _ going to talk about this, and realized for the millionth time that he really didn’t deserve Patrick. 

 

Pushing the backpack behind him, he settled back against it and looked at the expanse of the Pacific ocean through his bent legs. Patrick wasn’t looking at him, staring out at the view silently and it made it easier somehow...like he didn’t have to worry about seeing his face, his reactions, his pity or his sorrow.

 

“What do you know?” 

 

His husband shrugged, taking a sip from his water bottle. “What you want to tell me is more important.” 

 

It flowed out then, tumbling from his lips in halting gushes escaping in the light of Patrick’s acceptance. The easy missions, the growing sense of unease that  _ something _ was going to go wrong in their last two weeks, that it had all gone  _ too well _ . The briefing and how his mind had flitted back--like always--to seeing Patrick standing up there for the first time, how he had been so excited to get home to him he just wanted to jump up and down and run in circles. The burst of hot air as they had opened the door of the humvee at the edge of the town and run for cover, eyes scanning the small village for any signs of weapons or unfriendly intent. The buzzing of a fly as he gave the order to  _ go _ and how Mardoux and Garcia had started moving forward…

 

The  _ crack _ of the shot as it echoed off distant hills, the way his heart had frozen for a split second as he was gripped by the fear that his best friend had been hit, that he  _ couldn’t lose Barney _ ...and then the fathomless  _ guilt  _ and  _ horror _ as he saw Chase tumble to the dusty ground instead. 

 

“I--I couldn’t do anything for him. Widman was  _ screaming _ for a medvac and I was trying to see where the shot came from and Steele’s hands were  _ covered _ in blood and…” He swiped at the tears running down his face and Patrick sat up, pulling the backpack out from under him to solemnly hand him a travel-pack of tissues. Desperately trying to not break down completely, Pete tried to smile, reached for humor. “Thought of everything, huh?” 

 

“I tried.” Patrick gave him a sad smile, blue eyes full of sadness and acceptance and he felt like he was drowning in it. He grabbed Patrick’s hand, pulling him down to lay flat next to him and look up at the cloudless blue sky, and he blew his nose before continuing. 

 

“He...they said he never felt it.” He could hear the tears in his voice, he could feel the shakes starting, but somehow Patrick’s hand wrapped tightly around his own grounded him. “We...we train so much to  _ save _ each other, you know? That whole thing about no SEAL has ever been left behind, never not been brought home. I was  _ ready _ for that, I was  _ ready  _ to run through the bullets to grab Long or Hileston…” He sniffed, fighting back a sob. “I wasn’t ready him just to be  _ gone. _ One minute he’s there, next minute he’s on the ground.  _ And I couldn't do anything.” _ Patrick squeezed his hand with the slightest pressure, a pulse of  _ I’m Here _ ...and he couldn't take it anymore. He rolled to his side, burying his face on his shoulder and curling around him just before the sobs broke past his composure. Patrick rubbed his back, murmuring softly as he cried, gasping out brokenly  _ It’s my fault I should have seen it all my fault it should have been me we were supposed to all come home I lost him and it’s all my fault.  _ Some distant part of him was thankful that Patrick wasn’t trying to tell him it was okay, because it  _ wasn’t _ and they both knew it. 

  
The breeze skittered over them both and he realized he felt just a little bit better. It wasn’t gone, it wasn’t  _ okay _ ...but he could breathe just a little deeper.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team heads out to the field for a training mission and change is in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the angst, my friends...I'm so sorry that this story has fallen off a bit...I promise I haven't forgotten! I have it all outlined and it's THERE...just BBB has still got it's little taloned fingers in my life, so updates have slowed. But thank you to all those who have commented or kindly nudged me (sn1tches, that's you!!) and I hope you enjoy!! <3 
> 
> I'll caution, there's some banter in this chapter between Barney and Pete, and it's what I imagine they would say...but it's a bit crass. I apologize if anyone is bothered by it, but I hope you'll let me know! Hugs my friends!!

 

“Patrick! Did you fall asleep?? I’ve gotta go!” Pete’s voice rang out through the foyer of their townhome, muffled slightly by the bags on bags that were piled against the door. He heard the telltale creaking that meant Patrick had rolled out of bed to plant his feet on the ground and glare at the wall as he tried to wake up, and he looked up at the stairs again. “I’m gonna put my shit in the car and I’ll be back.” He heard the  _ thump thump _ of Patrick stamping the floor that was probably the most acknowledgement he’d get and shrugged, grabbing four of the five gear bags and kicking the door open. The night air was cool as he stepped out and he wondered distantly when it had become fall in California... _ wasn’t it spring when I got back? _ Dark, angry, accusing thoughts skittered around his brain, and he slammed that mental door shut, throwing the gear in the back of his truck and shaking his head. He saw the light flicker on in their bedroom and he willed himself to smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he moved back towards the house. 

 

“There you are, sleepy head.” He laughed at the scowl Patrick gave him as he stumbled down the steps, opening his arms for him to fall into. Dipping his head down, he nuzzled into his neck, breathing deep the smell of  _ sleep  _ and  _ Patrick  _ and  _ home  _ and sighed contentedly. 

 

“--thought you weren’t leaving ‘till the morning?” The words were mumbled into his chest and he couldn’t hold back the smile splitting across his face at how disoriented Patrick sounded--it was adorable in the extreme. 

 

“Yeah, but it’s almost morning and I realized I didn’t finish inventory of all the gear so figured I’d better do that before we head out to the field.” He pulled back to look at his husband, unable to help himself from straightening his glasses where they sat crookedly on his nose. His hair was adorably mussed, one side plastered to his temple while the other stuck out at bizarre angles, and his heart clenched at the way Patrick’s nose scrunched up when he tried to open his eyes wider to look up at him. 

 

“Oh...okay, I guess. I didn’t--”

 

At that moment, the dull roar of the ever-present California traffic was punctuated by a car backfiring, the sound shattering the stillness of the pre-dawn air. Pete froze, eyes widening then narrowing in vigilance as he spun Patrick around and shoved him against the wall, pressing his back into him as his hand dropped unconsciously to the pistol that was always on his hip…

 

“Pete, babe.” Patrick’s voice was a bit breathless from the impact but it was low, soothing. Soft fingers wrapped around his where he was scrabbling for his sidearm that  _ wasn’t  _ in his holster,  _ where the fuck was it-- _ then he realized it was because he wasn’t  _ wearing _ his holster because he was at  _ home _ . He felt the metal of Patrick’s wedding band brush for a split second against his sweaty palm and he came back, blinking away the dusty, monochrome landscape of squat mud buildings and distant hills and saw instead the white moulding around the door frame, the candy-cane stripe of the freeway in the distance, his truck in the driveway. 

 

“Oh.” He pulled away, unsealing himself from his defensive position against Patrick and gave him a half-embarrassed smile, rubbing his neck as the sudden decrease in adrenaline left him feeling like a puppet with its strings cut. “My bad.” 

 

Looking at him with eyes that were now wide and alert, Patrick opened his mouth to say something and then closed it with a small shake of his head, lips tucking into a small smile. “Don’t worry about it. I love you, you know that right?” 

 

He could feel the rush of unnecessary but still-present embarrassment thrumming through him at his out-of-place reaction and the incongruity of it all struck him like a thunderclap. Patrick in his soft T-shirt stretched at the neck and boxers that had seen too many washings looking like a vision of domesticity and peace. It stood in stark contrast to the weathered softness of his multicam and the sure fit of his boots, bag full of tactical gear slung over one shoulder and his flak vest hanging from his other...they were War and Peace. Destruction and Safety, and it made his skin crawl as he fought off the dissonant echoes of rifle fire and the way Patrick mumbled in his sleep.

 

“‘Course.” He pressed a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, suddenly full of thundered words like  _ lost _ and  _ failed _ and  _ killed in action  _ and couldn’t bring himself to do anything more as he fought past the sudden lump in his throat and tried to smile the way he used to. “Three weeks will go by in a flash, and when I get back we can get ready for halloween.” His words sounded like the hollow shell of his old easy excitement to his own ears, and he prayed Patrick wasn’t awake enough to notice as he pulled away. Jogging down the driveway, he pulled out and drove away like there was a pack of tanks on his tail, gritting his teeth as he sternly commanded his fraying nerves to  _ get it the fuck together. _

 

~//~

 

“You know, bandito, I think this might be it for me.” Barney’s voice crackled over his headset on the command frequency, and he rolled his eyes as he concentrated on stuffing rounds into the magazines on his lap. 

 

“What, your period come early again? I keep telling you, man, a girl’s always gotta be prepared.”

 

“You know you sound like a fuckin’  _ Marine _ when you say that, right? I’m gonna tell Widman change your callsign to Devil Dog.” There was laughter in his best friend’s voice that was so familiar it made him feel like he could breathe for a split second. 

 

“Asshole.” He rolled his head around, trying to work out the kinks that never seemed to go away lately. 

 

“Yeah, no. My butthole is virgin territory that’s gonna go unexplored forever, just like the Amazon.” Before Pete could fire off a rejoinder, there was a burst of static as Barney threw the flap back and ducked into the tent. He threw his helmet on the table and plunked down on the makeshift chair, wiping the ever-present dust from his forehead. “I’m getting old,  _ muchacho _ . I think this is my last desert vacation.” 

 

_ That _ brought him up short, hands freezing with a round half under the magazine’s lip as his head shot up to look at his friend’s face. “Wait, are you for real right now?” 

 

“Are you reverting to be a teenage girl or something? Yes,  _ for realsies.”  _ Barney pulled a protein bar from the large rectangular pocket on his thigh and ripped it open, taking a bite as he looked levelly at Pete. “San Diego PD approached me again. They want me to teach their fuckin’ baby cops, and it’s a  _ good _ offer. Stable hours, actual  _ holidays  _ off, incredible pay, and most of all, Angela will stop screaming at me.” 

 

“That’ll never happen.” Pete’s fingers decided to start working and he looked back down, shoving the round in and grabbing another one as his mind spun with the sudden shift. “Angela is gonna scream at you ‘till one of you goes deaf.” Barney shrugged with an assenting grunt at that and took another bite. 

 

“Yeah but it keeps life interesting, I couldn't do a barefoot-in-the-kitchen kinda woman.” 

 

Silence fell on the tent, with only the occasional holler of one of the team outside as they finished packing their gear and did one of the hundred other sundry jobs that had to be done before a jump. Pete kept sliding bullets into the magazine, the mechanical motion a comfort. “You’re seriously thinking of leaving?” 

 

Stuffing the last of the bar into his mouth, Barney shrugged. “I wanna see my kids grow up, man. Like actually get to be at their birthdays and take my woman out for our anniversary.” 

 

“I--” Pete grimaced down at the full clip, setting it down on the table before starting on the second one. “You’d seriously leave?” 

 

“Fuck  _ cabron _ , you’re making it sound like I’m breaking up with you or something.” He picked at the bottom of his boot, at a rock that had lodged itself in the tread before meeting Pete’s eyes. “You know we deserve to actually get some of that peace and quiet for ourselves, right? Like, for real...we don’t have to go full retard forever.” 

 

“You never go full retard.” Pete laughed the familiar reply back at him mirthlessly and it felt like ash in his mouth. He couldn’t imagine the team without Barney--without his rock-solid good humor, his level-headed precision that balanced out his own boisterousness. 

 

“I dunno. I haven’t made up my mind but I figured I should tell you...see if I can convince you to come with me. You’d look good in a polo,  _ hombre. _ ” 

 

“To fuckin’  _ teach _ ?” He couldn’t hold back a snort of derision at that. “You know I can’t do that shit. This is where I belong.” 

 

Barney shrugged again, standing and giving him a look. “Just saying...think ‘bout all those lazy weekends with Patrick you could have, all those fuckin’ rose-petal baths and shit--” 

 

A sharp laugh hissed between his teeth, surprising him with its haste and suddenness. “That’d be more of a disaster than anything.” 

 

“The hell do you mean? Are you guys not-- _ dude.”  _ Garcia grabbed the magazine off the table. “Are these fucking  _ live rounds?”  _

 

Snatching the magazine away from him, Pete jammed it in his backpack and scowled. “You never know. Shit doesn’t schedule a time to go sideways.” 

 

“What the hell are you expecting to happen on a  _ training jump _ bro? The Taliban invade Coronado when I was taking a piss or something?” 

 

“Whatever.” He kept jamming rounds into the second magazine, filling it and settling it at the bottom of his ruck next to its twin. He felt his heart unclench a bit knowing they were there.  _ Just in case _ . “You never know, the Marines could go feral. It’s been known to happen.” 

 

Barney gave him a strange look before letting out a sigh as he grabbed his helmet. “Whatever, boss. Just remember which mag’s which for me, yeah?” 

 

“I’d only shoot you in the ass if you asked very nicely, I told you that a long time ago.” He quipped back, throwing his ruck onto his back and picking up his rifle, feeling the adrenaline starting to make his breath feel like it was coming just a little faster, a little shallower with anticipation. “Twenty bucks the fuckin’ Air Force brats haven’t even loaded the chutes yet.”

 

“Not touching that bet with a ten foot pole,  _ chico. _ It’s the Air Force, the loadmaster’s probably still painting the pilots’ nails still.” 

 

Sliding on his sunglasses as he opened the tent flap into the bright California sunshine, he shook his head ruefully. “Least we know we can count on something.” 

 

~//~

 

Red light bathed them in an eerie glow as the ramp shuddered beneath their feet, buffeted with angry air currents. The weather had taken a turn, the bright sun eclipsed by angry clouds and a possibility of rain just before they finished their mission prep. The pilot had shrugged it off when Pete had asked, saying it took a lot more than a bit of rain to stop the World’s Greatest Air Force and he had barely managed to only snort under his breath as he walked away. They piled into their gear, checked each other like they had done a million times and then sat through the relative ease of takeoff. The rest of the team had been in good spirits, laughing and joking as they gained altitude but then the lights had shut off, the pilot’s voice crackled over their headsets as he told them they were approaching the drop zone. The red light had switched on and they had fallen into clinically-efficient silence, performing all the critical checks a final time and tapping their partner on the shoulder when they finished. 

 

Now they stood, waiting for the call that they were there in silence, the bay shuddering in the winds as they howled outside the aging C-130. Pete breathed deeply into from oxygen tank strapped to his back, tapping his foot impatiently as he tried to run through his mental checklist for HALO jumps. More tricky than the normal low altitude jumps, High Altitude-Low Open jump time was two minutes--plenty of time to contemplate your life before hitting the ground if you messed something up. But his head kept drifting back to Patrick’s voice when he had called earlier, the hint of tension in it when he asked if everything was alright. He had snapped  _ of course I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be _ ? And realized now that Patrick probably didn’t deserve such a clipped reply and he shook his head, trying to clear it of the way the world  _ failure _ seemed to swirl through his brain like water circling the drain. 

 

_ Why _ was it so hard to just...chill. He knew objectively that he had been more easily-frustrated lately, lashing out at his husband on the rare times they were home together in sharp-tongued fits of pettiness that he knew he shouldn’t have let past his lips. He couldn’t figure out why the way his skin felt like it was skittering with ants sometimes when Patrick reached for him when he slid into bed next to him, he didn’t know why he was suddenly so irritated when Patrick laughed just a bit too loud.

 

_ I need to get my shit together. _ He told himself sternly as he stared at the red light-bathed loadmaster, standing next to the button that would open the bay doors and let release them to the open air.  _ After this, I’ll take a couple days off and take him out, like we used to do. Maybe to Dave and Busters for some nostalgia.  _

 

The light flared green and there was a low blare of the buzzer, vibrating through the soles of their boots. The ramp shook as the Loadmaster hit the button, hand held out to caution them back as he bent to his work, checking that everything was right for them to jump. 

 

_ “SEALs, we will be in the Drop Zone in One-Zero seconds.”  _ The voice of the pilot crackles over their earpieces as the Loadmaster straightened, giving them the hand signal that everything checked out. 

 

“ _ Team Lead, you are clear to jump at your discretion.”  _ The kid’s voice was surprisingly deep, and he wondered for a split second if it was just a trick of the radio. Barney gave him the signal and he gave him a thumbs up in return. 

 

_ “Alpha and Bravo teams, on my mark. Three, two, one--GO.”  _

 

Then he was running, the deck falling out from beneath his feet as the left the platform and the familiar feeling of split-second panic gripped him before his mind remembered that he was okay, he wasn’t falling to his death. His team arrayed around him, spreading out correctly as they plummeted towards the surface, comms silent as was the expectation as he checked his altimeter, counting off the thousands of feet in his head until the readout informed him that they were  _ there. _

 

His parachute flared to life like a phoenix, resurrecting him from the death plummeting up at him and pushed all thoughts of  _ Patrick  _ and  _ failure _ and  _ why _ from his head and concentrated on steering while scouring the landscape for threats. Bending his knees, he prepped for impact as he pulled the right handle to correct for an errant puff of wind…

 

Then the pain exploded through him like a grenade. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery, moping and some halloween =)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends! So I hadn't planned on writing this update this soon, but...hey. Who needs to go to bed at a responsible time for work? Not fanfic writers!!! I'll reply to your lovely comments soon, but I just wanted to get this out for you...thank you so much for all your kind words, and I hope you don't hate me too much for that cliffhanger <3 Sending you tons of love, and thank you for reading!!

 

_It was dark as he groped for the phone on his nightstand, the light from the screen blinding as he struggled to find the “Accept Call” button. The numbers on the screen were unfamiliar as he pressed it to his cheek and murmured “hello?” but the voice on the other side he recognized instantly._

 

_“--Atrick? It’s Barney, listen, don’t freak out but you gotta get to the Naval Medical Center.”_

 

_Instantly awake, Patrick groped for the light and then his glasses, fumbling on shaking legs to get out of bed. He only succeeded in falling to the floor in a tumble of twisted blankets and suddenly-wooden limbs as panic seized his heart in a vice._

 

_“IS HE OKAY?”_

 

_“Yeah, yeah it’s okay chico. Something happened to his leg on the jump. Steele went with him on the MedEvac, but you should get there. He--” Static garbled the rest of the sentence before the line went dead, but Patrick had already slid the phone into the pocket of his hastily-pulled on jeans and was bolting for the door._

 

~//~

 

He couldn’t help that his foot was tapping an incessant beat as he stared at the pattern of pink flecks on the linoleum floor, brain tumbling over conflicting feelings of gratitude and worry. Steele had guided him into a chair when he burst into the huge Naval hospital emergency room and calmed him down, reassuring him in his vibrating baritone as Patrick clutched his hand that Pete was going to be _fine_ . He had landed bad on the jump and done something to his knee, banging himself up so he _looked_ like he was half dead, but Steele assured him he wasn’t. Patrick had felt himself sag into the chair as he let out the terrified breath that always seemed to freeze in his lungs when he thought something had happened to his husband.

 

Looking up at Steele’s towering form as he walked back, Patrick remembered his manners and tried to smile. “Thanks for taking care of him, Keeran. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

 

Steele shrugged and gave him a dazzlingly-white smile. “No problem, man. Barney told me I can’t come back ‘till he wakes up. I swear that dude is gay for him too the way he fuckin’ mothers him.”

 

Patrick smiled a bit, hands twisting together as he tried not to worry. Midnight-skinned fingers covered his own and squeezed gently. “Hey, I know it’s fuckin’ scary, but he’s gonna be okay.”

 

With a deliberate breath out Patrick nodded and relaxed his hands, giving him a slightly-wobbly but grateful smile, noticing for the first time his fly was down and his shirt was inside out. He decided he didn’t want to know what his hair looked like and that he really didn’t care. “Thanks.” He looked over and crooked an eyebrow. “Hey, how’s Ellie doing with the treatment? I read it can be rough.”

 

He shrugged but there was no mistaking the mingled hope and tension on his face. “Yeah, it sucks...she’s super dizzy and nauseated all the time. But hey--” A smile broke over his face like a sunrise. “Three more weeks and we can give the whole IVF thing a shot. Just sucks I won’t be here for most of it if it works.”

 

“Well...if she needs _anything_ at all, please tell her I’m just a phone call away. Anything she needs.” He grinned. “Us SEAL wives have to stick together, you know?”

 

Steele let out a laugh at that and nodded. “Yeah, pretty sure Kelsea would have burned the house down when she found that spider if it wasn’t for you. Long--”

 

“Is anyone here for Petty Officer Wentz?”

 

Patrick shot out of the chair. “Yes, here! Is he--”

 

Her smile was kind but harried, like she had seen too many stressed spouses to really have the emotional energy to console them. “He’s out of the MRI and settled into bed. He’s sedated, but I can take you back.” They wound through the maze-like corridors until they came to a room that looked like all the others, the nurse pulling back the curtain for them as Patrick almost tripped over his own feet.

 

Looking somehow smaller surrounded by white sheets and swathed in a white gown, Pete lay with his eyes closed. A supplemental oxygen tube sat just under his nose and Patrick couldn’t help but gasp at the litany of bruises and cuts that littered the right side of his face.

 

“He should wake up fairly soon, but he’s on a lot of pain medications.” She picked up the chart from the foot of the bed. “In addition to the knee injury, he has several bruised ribs and there was some fluid in his lungs. The doctor will be in to talk to you about the MRI results in a bit.” With a nod, she left the room as Patrick moved to stand by him, taking one hand in his own and soothing over it with his thumb.

 

“God, he looks like he got hit by a train.” He whispered and Steele hummed an assent, but then Pete was stirring, lips cracking open as he pulled in a shaky breath. Patrick’s breath quickened and he ran a gentle hand through his hair, murmuring lowly to him reassurance. “Pete, it’s Patrick. I’m here sweetheart, you’re okay.” His eyes flickered open, dim and unfocused as he blinked once, twice, before fastening to his husband’s face.

 

“--Trick?” His words came out slurred as he fought to focus. “Whaa happened?”

 

Patrick looked up as Steele came up beside him and waved. “Hey man, you had a bad landing, do you remember?”

 

Nodding slowly, Pete grimaced as he tried to shift. “Fuckin’ hurt…’vryone else okay?”

 

“Yeah dude. Everyone else was fine, you just pulled the short straw and got the one patch of rocks the squints didn’t pick up on.”

 

Pete nodded, grimacing again before looking up at Patrick and mumbling something unintelligible. He just gave him a reassuring smile and nodded. “It’s okay, you can go back to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”  With another mumbled set of gibberish, Pete closed his eyes and drifted back off. They both looked up as the doctor strode into the room.

 

“Ah, are you the husband?” He looked down at the folder in his hand, “Patrick Stump? And you’re HM1 Steele, correct?” They both nodded and he looked up at them both over his reading glasses. “Well, gentleman, Petty Officer Wentz here had quite a time. Dislocated his knee laterally when he tried to fall out of the jump, and you did a good job young man stabilizing him until the Evac got him here.” The doctor nodded at Steele, before continuing. “Imaging shows there isn’t any indications of damage to the popliteal nerve, which was our main concern. But he’s not going to be able to put weight on it for at least six weeks, and rehab typically takes about six months.” He checked the chart again. “I see you boys were doing deployment prep field training, is that right?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Steele answered. “We’re supposed to ship out in a month.”

 

“Well, he’s not going to be shipping anywhere, unless the news has wildly exaggerated the Taliban’s threat and you guys can actually fight them from a wheelchair.” He looked at Patrick. “We’ll discharge him as soon as the heavy meds wear off, but he’s going to need to be seen by an orthopedic specialist within the next two days. The nurse will come give you all the details, alright?”

 

Nodding, Patrick thanked the doctor and looked over at Steele, who was rubbing his hand over his face. “Well...I’d better get back to tell Barney he’s the new Team Lead.” He grimaced. “He’s gonna flip.”

 

“Are you guys gonna be okay?” Patrick asked, knowing from nearly two years of marriage and the additional two of dating that a SEAL team was a surprisingly delicate organism. Steele gave him a tired grin.

 

“Don’t you worry about that, man. We’ll figure it out, you just get him well, alright?” With that, he said his goodbyes as he picked up his discarded field vest and holster from the ground by the door before slipping out.

 

With a sigh, Patrick pulled the lone chair in the room close to the bed and took his husband’s hand again. Worries tumbled over him like a waterfall as he considered the night’s turn--he could feel the vestiges of the adrenaline melting away but this was just the beginning of a long road. Pete had been so focused on this deployment, almost like he could wipe away the heartbreak of Chase’s loss with a successful string of missions.

 

His mind drifted back over the past months...they had been hard. Pete had stubbornly refused to talk to anyone except Patrick about Chase’s death...and what little he said was still fraught with him insisting he was fine, that he’d never forget but that they owed it to him to move on and win the next fight. He had thrown himself into training and preparation like he was being chased by an army of angry congressmen, demanding the team practice breaching exercises, tactical courses, advanced firearms training...the list went on and on. Patrick had nodded sympathetically when the other SEAL wives moaned about their spouses being gone for long days when they even came home...and he just sighed and wondered when Pete would take a breath.

 

He had tried to convince Pete to take a breather now and then, one morning waking up early to make him breakfast in bed, hoping they could have a lazy morning together. Pete had instead wolfed down the food and given him a kiss before heading out for a mid-morning cardio session, leaving him in an empty bed with the scent of syrup in the air. Their lovemaking had been infrequent but _good_ when it happened, Pete’s arms wrapping tightly around him as they moved like he was afraid he would melt away if he let go. But he realized he didn’t remember the last time they had laid together afterwards, talking and laughing about everything and nothing. He would try to tell Pete about his day with his first-graders, how they had learned “twinkle, twinkle” on the recorder but that it still sounded like a cacophony of screaming sometimes...but was usually met with a disinterested nod and a distracted smile. Over and over he told himself it was just stress, that Pete was struggling to get settled in but it would get better after this deployment went well...but now, he wondered what would happen.

 

He rubbed soothing circles over the back of Pete’s hand, skirting the edge of the tape that held his IV in place and told himself they would figure it out. They always had, after all.

 

~//~

 

Ducking under a low-hanging cobweb, Patrick started up the stairs. Pete had taken the news of his injury and being pulled off the deployment hard, sulking on the couch in a drugged haze between fits of furious anger at the unfairness of it all. In an effort to pull Pete out of his post-injury funk, Patrick had put up what could be deemed an excessive amount of halloween-themed decorations hoping to make him smile at the thought of his favorite holiday. But instead, he had sequestered himself in their upstairs bedroom, declaring it too hard to try to come up and down the stairs on crutches anyways. Today, though...today was going to be different, he was determined.

 

“Pete! Look what I got for you!” Pushing open the door to the bedroom, he held the package out in front of him with a showing of six-year-old approved jazz hands. His husband looked up from his nest on the bed and a look of confusion flitted over his face as he looked him over.

 

“Why are you wearing a costume? I told you, I don’t want to go to Garcia’s party, too many screaming kids that could run into my knee.”

 

“We’re not, now come on.” He ripped the package open, noticing the way Pete’s eyes had lit up for the briefest of moments when he saw the Jack Skellington costume. “And look, the pants are loose enough to fit over your brace, so you have no excuse.” After a healthy dose of Pete arguing and Patrick’s stubborn refusal to give in, they had him dressed and heading out of the bedroom.

 

“Seriously, what the fuck are we doing all this for? I just want to stay in bed and take more drugs, physical therapy kicked my ass today.” Pete whined as Patrick helped him work his way down the stairs on his rear, one at a time and scowling.

 

“You’ll see.” He helped him stand and take his crutches, guiding him to the front door before opening it with a flourish.

 

It was a beautiful California night, dusk setting in and the sky a darkening purple. The jack-o-lanterns he had carved-- _alone--_ glittered on the porch, and Pete’s wheelchair was decked out with tinsel spiders and cotton cobwebs. Finally, the stream of whining stopped as Pete took it in, looking over at him finally with an inquisitive look on his face.

 

“What is this?”

 

“I figured since you didn’t want to go out, at least we could enjoy the night and hand out candy.” A small smile flitted around Pete’s mouth as he saw the gigantic bowl of candy--filled with _good_ candy, not any of the cheap stuff he so despised giving out--and nodded. Patrick guided him down the step and onto the porch, waving to their neighbors two houses down who were doing the same thing.

 

“Our decorations are way better.” He smirked at Patrick, pulling him down by the lapel of his pirate coat and tipping his hat back a bit before pressing a kiss to his lips. “Thanks, babe.”

 

He could feel his cheeks warm along with his heart at Pete’s soft tone, the one he knew so well but had heard so rarely in the last few months. “Of course.” He smiled and pulled the giant bowl of candy up so it could sit on his lap. “I’ll hold the candy and you distribute. It seems right that the pirate guards the booty.”

“You said _booty.”_ Pete stage-whispered, laughing at his own joke as a miniature batman and a tiny girl dressed in a cow costume walked up the sidewalk. His eyes lit up as he talked to them, screaming shrilly when they yelped _trick or treat!_ before thanking Batman for saving Gotham and moooing enthusiastically at the little girl as he handed them candy bars. Patrick sighed as Pete’s hand slipped into his as they watched the little family go over to the next house for candy, and prayed that his good humor would stick around this time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cracks have been there for a while, but now...things start to break apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, my friends! Welcome to the angst! Oh, what's that? You thought the last few chapters had all the angst?! Not so, not so at all. Turn back now if you don't want to go on the roller-coaster of heartbreak with me...I wouldn't blame you at all. 
> 
> For the rest of you masochistic souls (you know who you are and I love you!) thank you for sticking with me, and thank you so very, very much for reading and for all your kind comments <3

 

He kept looking over at Pete as he navigated the ever-present traffic on the 5, and whatever he had worked up the courage to say would die on his lips at the look on his face. It was stormclouds and heartbreak, letdown and betrayal, anger and loss, all tangled up in the set of his brow, the angle of his shoulders. His fingers were picking compulsively at the velcro tab of the brace that was strapped around his knee, the ripping sound making Patrick’s skin crawl a bit each time. But he tamped down the urge to say anything, to reach out and cover Pete’s hand with his own and just drove, turning up the radio’s grating blare of Top 40 hits

 

It entered his mind to offer to drop Pete off at the front door and then find a parking spot, because surely they would be quite a truck away...but another glance confirmed his suspicion that would be a bad plan. Pulling into the short-term parking lot, he found a place as close to the walkway as he could and pushed the gear into park. Pete was out of the car before he even had the chance to pull the keys from the ignition, ignoring Patrick’s protests that he could help. Sighing again at Pete’s self-destructive bent on independence, he fell into step beside him, knowing better than to reach for the hand nearest him as Pete limped painfully towards the airport. They made their way to the terminal in silence, the woosh of the automatic doors loud as they ground open on rails that sounded in dire need of grease.

 

Pete perked up, a wide smile smoothing out the lines of anger and self-loathing on his face as his team came into view, gear bags arrayed around them like they were making a defensive position in the airport.  Wives and children were clustered around them, laughing and crying as promises were made and consolation was offered, and Patrick nearly missed the muttered curse that fell from Pete’s lips in the din...but not quite.

 

“Yo! The boss’s here!”

 

A chorus of acknowledgement rang out as the team greeted Pete, who was nothing but charisma and humor as he talked to each of his team, promising to requisition them extra BBQ Meals Ready to Eat and the stool softeners to go with them and promising to keep the brass off their asses. He tickled Long’s six-month old daughter Katelyn, laughing out with her hiccuping belly-laugh, and let Angela berate him for getting hurt and leaving her poor Barney to lead the team of _pinche cabrones_ . He gave each of their brood of tussling energy a high five before moving over to say hello to Steele and his wife, and promised to get Ellie a direct line so she could let him know how the IVF went. Patrick just stood to the side, playing nervously with his keys as he watched it all. Kelsea came over with the baby, who he took with a smile and a nod so she could run back to her husband to hug and kiss him to her heart’s content. Katelyn gurgled up at him happily, sticking two fingers in her mouth and babbling. He wiped drool from her chin with the sleeve of his cardigan, smiling down at her and making faces that he was sure were ridiculous but didn’t really care. Looking up now and then, he kept an eye on Pete as he moved around the group, noting the tension in the lines of his eyes, in the muscles of his forearms...but he doubted anyone else would notice. Sometimes he thought Pete forgot _he_ noticed.

 

Then it was time for goodbyes and he handed over Katelyn, standing awkwardly for the first time in years without a goodbye of his own to say. He watched Pete looking similarly unsure in the sea of tearful kisses and clinging hugs and looking unmoored as he stood alone, and he wondered if Pete would come over to him...but no. Of course not.

 

Then hands were unclasped, tears were dried and the women gathered in a knot to stand in solidarity as they said goodbye. Kelsea held her hand out for Patrick and he moved over, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she parroted a wave with the baby’s chubby hand. They stood, solid and strong except for Pete who stood uncertainly to the side, until the last of the multicam was out of sight down the long terminal hallway and they were alone again. The chattering began that he was familiar with after many repetitions over the years and he saw Ellie move to talk to Pete with her arms clasped protectively around her stomach.

 

“Weird, isn’t it?” Kelsea looked up at him, moving her daughter to the side to balance her easily on her hip. “Pete not going.”

 

“Yeah.” Patrick looked down at his feet, mind flashing back over all the airport goodbyes and realized he almost wanted it...he almost wanted to say goodbye because that meant he would come back. _His_ Pete would come back.

 

“Something going on?” Kelsea’s grey eyes were shaded with perceptiveness that only came from nights sharing a bottle (or three) of wine and concurrently pining for, cussing out, and laughing over their far-away husbands. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

 

“I don’t know…” He looked over at Pete again and shrugged. “I’ll let you know, but I’d feel bad complaining when he’s home and everyone else isn’t.”

 

She squeezed his arm and pulled him in for a hug that was half full of baby and half full of diaper bag but that felt infinitely comforting nonetheless. “I’m here, and you know nobody begrudges you having Pete still here...we were all so worried when he got hurt.” He nodded miserably as she fixed him with a look he vaguely remembered seeing on his mother’s face. “Tell you what, I’m going to spend a month with my family back in Iowa, they’ve been begging to see the little ladybug. But when I get back, we’ll have a wine night. It’ll be great.”

 

Nodding and giving her a smile that he hoped looked real, Patrick agreed. Beside him Pete suddenly appeared and said hello, reminding Kelsea if she needed anything he was just a phone call away. She thanked him with a grin, eyes sliding to Patrick full of questions as she noticed his tone, but bundled Katelyn up and said goodbye after promising to call Patrick when she got back, leaving just the two of them in the suddenly-empty terminal.

 

Pete didn’t say anything, just turned and limped towards the doors as Patrick hurried to catch up. It seemed incongruous that he’d have to hurry to catch his injured husband, but that was how it went lately. Pete swung his body along like he was striding down the deck of a ship, out into the purple dimness of dusk illuminated by the incandescent artificiality of the parking lot lights. Fumbling in his pocket, Patrick found the key fob and unlocked the car for Pete, who reached it and gritted out a curse when the door handle failed to open. He slammed the door harder than Patrick thought was strictly necessary, but he pushed that away as he slid in, starting the car and heading back to the giant rat race that was the criss-cross of interstates.

 

“I can’t fucking wait ‘till I can drive again, God.” Pete muttered under his breath, and Patrick shot him a look.

 

“Is there something wrong with the way I drive?”

 

“No, you just--” Pete gestured with his hands before throwing them in the air and shaking his head with a huff. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

 

“I will not, you--”

 

“Will you just _forget it_?!” Pete’s voice exploded outwards with such force that for a split second Patrick wondered that the windows didn’t shatter outwards, and he focused his eyes on the glowing red tail lights of the car in front of him as his hands twisted around the steering wheel as he tried to not yell back. Reaching for the Aux cable, Pete plugged in his phone and started playing something angry and too Metal for Patrick’s taste...but he just gritted his teeth and drove.

 

~//~

 

Without a word, Patrick huffed upstairs as soon as they got home and went straight to the master bathroom. He turned on the shower, slipping in and letting out a sigh as the hot water cascaded down, telling himself Pete could make it up the stairs just fine by himself if he was going to be an ass.

 

Twenty minutes later, he had washed and soaped and done every conceivable showering task he could think of but was just standing under the fall of water, savoring the heat and feeling guilt wend through him for being mad at Pete. He _knew_ it was hard, he _knew_ he felt awful watching his team go off to war without him, he _knew_ how hard it was to be left behind because he’d done it himself deployment after deployment...and this was Pete’s first time. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, tipping his head back and letting the water cascade over his cheeks before shaking the droplets away and turning the spray off.

 

He toweled dry and slipped into the pajamas that he had left hanging on the hook behind the door. Turning the light off before he opened the door in case Pete was already asleep, he padded into the bedroom and slid in next to his husband. Settling into his pillow, he rolled to his side with his back to the other side of the bed and put his phone on the nightstand, fumbling for the charger before finding it.

 

Warm arms wrapped around him and he couldn’t help the way he stiffened in surprise. _This_ wasn’t what he was expecting, certainly not after the terse car ride, but then Pete mumbled a quiet _I’m sorry_ into his neck and he decided to take what he could get as he felt the press of his hard cock against his ass. Rolling around, Patrick closed his eyes and pulled him close, hoping against hope that they could just forget the day’s events and find themselves again, here and now. Pete’s mouth opened hungrily under his own and Patrick brought his hands up to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and fingertips feathering his temples. A low humming rumbled from his chest as he felt himself relax into the familiar _tastefeelsmell_ of _Pete…_

 

But then he was being rolled over with clinically efficient movements, his pajamas shoved roughly down his hips and before he could even register that lips were no longer pressed to his own, Pete had shimmied down the bed to bury his face in his ass. He felt his flattened tongue lick a broad stripe over his hole before feathering it with deliberately tentative licks that had him whimpering and burying his face into his pillow as he tried to not grind too obviously into the mattress. Pete pulled off to sink his teeth into the back of his knee, biting with just an instant’s worth of sting that he soothed just as quickly with his tongue before flitting back up to worry at the tight pucker between his cheeks.

 

“Oh my god--” He gasped out before hissing between his teeth as another set of teeth imprints were left on him, this time in the tender skin just under the curve of his ass. The bright flash of pain made him even harder, the nerves that he had felt skittering under his skin banished as his thoughts of _it’s been so long_ and _why all the sudden now_ were banished by a looping curl of desire that cut through him like a gale. Pete had two fingers tucked in him next to his tongue, plumbing his body and stroking him open as he licked and hummed. His fingers curled deliciously against his prostate as his mouth moved away to press to the soft skin of his inner thigh…

 

“ _PETE, FUCK!”_ Patrick yelped as the teeth sunk in too hard, the bright flare of pain turning to a searing, riotous explosion of agony. He scrabbled away, hand going to his leg in a shaky, needlessly-protective effort as he rolled away from Pete, who had shot to the edge of the bed at his cry. “What the hell?” He realized he was shaking as Pete looked at him with all the sorrow of a kicked puppy, apology bright in his eyes as he crawled back towards him with his head held low.

 

“--’M sorry, ‘Trick.” He mumbled, spreading his legs to press a soft kiss to the place that was rapidly blooming into a screaming purple ring and then kissed up his body, sucking down his softened cock until it it had resumed its earlier state. Patrick decided he wouldn’t push him off, wouldn't make a big deal of it...they’d figure it out later. He spread his legs when Pete crawled back up to him, kissing him hard and letting his hands wander over the tanned, inked flesh he loved so much, that he knew like it was his own. Pete dug into their nightstand, coming out with the bottle of lube as he pressed kisses and soft bites to Patrick’s neck, growling out a grumbled complaint when he cautioned him against leaving marks but softening nonetheless. He slicked himself up and pressed between his legs and Patrick took a deep breath, waiting for the gentle push, the tentative breach of sensitive muscles and then the pause as he waited. But instead, Pete just kept pushing in, slowly with his head buried in Patrick’s neck. It was on his lips to say _wait_ , but instead he just breathed through it as he felt the way Pete was trembling, like he was struggling to contain the feelings inside him. When he bottomed out, Patrick tightened his legs around his waist, murmuring a soft _give me a second_ and hoping for a smile and a whispered _as long as you need._ But instead Pete just nodded into his neck, waiting until he relaxed the vice grip of his legs around him and then started to thrust.

 

It was _good._ It burned and it stretched and it ached but Patrick pushed it away because it also felt _amazing._ Pete rumbled something that sounded like _yes_ and moved his knees higher on the bed to push his legs into his chest and the angle had him gasping as his length brushed his prostate on every stroke. The look on Pete’s face was focused, intent but sad--like he was studying a chess move or planning a raid on a map, and his eyes were focused just above Patrick’s head. He was seized by the overwhelming ache for Pete to look at him, for him to _see him_ and smile that roguish grin with his eyes lit from the inside with humor and love. But his body had other plans, the movements of his husband’s hips too much to take as he stroked that place inside him with every thrust. With a moan he came, cock untouched between them, shooting over his belly and splashing up to where Pete had his thighs pressed to his chest.

 

Two thrusts of Pete’s hips later and he was back to reality, the aftershocks of his orgasm sparking through him as he opened his eyes to see Pete shuddering above him, mouth pressed into a thin line as he gleamed with sweat. Gently, Patrick pushed him off and to lay on the bed, noticing the way Pete winced as he straightened his knee on the bed. Ignoring every nerve ending in his body that just wanted to lie down and bask in the post-orgasm high, Patrick instead climbed on top of him and sank down his cock, trying not to hiss as oversensitivity made it decidedly less pleasant than usual. But he soldiered on, determined to make Pete come, so he angled his hips forward and tried to kiss him...but he turned his face away. Ignoring the twinge of confusion and anger, Patrick pressed a kiss to the spot under his ear that he knew drove Pete wild, whispering in his ear the dirty nothings that would make him gasp and grip his hips as he bucked up into him…

 

But instead, he felt Pete’s cock softening, shrinking. Hands tightened around his waist, but it was instead to push him off with a snarled curse. Pete rolled to the edge of the bed, throwing his legs over the side and sitting with his back hunched and his breathing sounding like an angry animal. With a tentative hand, Patrick reached out to touch his shoulder…

 

“ _Don’t fucking touch me!”_ Pete screamed, jumping from the bed like it was on fire, pulling his boxers from the floor and running out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Uneven footsteps echoed on the stairs as Pete thumped his way down them, and then Patrick was left in the dark silence of their bedroom, the scent of sex heavy in the air as he stared at the door with wide eyes.

 

Grabbing a discarded sand-colored t-shirt from the floor, he wiped himself and the sheets as best he could before pulling his pajamas back on and curling into a ball. His mind whirled with confusion and pain as he replayed the time since he stepped out of the shower in his mind, frantically asking himself what he had done wrong, what he had messed up or how he hadn’t done what Pete needed…He knew he _should_ be angry, he _should_ be furious at Pete for going too far and biting him, he _should_ be hurt that he looked at anything but his face while he was fucking him, he _should_ be upset that Pete didn’t notice he was trying even though he was uncomfortable...but instead, he just asked himself what he’d done wrong. What had happened, what had made his eyes so full of pain and had made him cry out when he touched him. Pete’s scream echoed through his ears and he shook his head. Whatever it was, he _had_ to try to help his husband...after all, he loved him. _He loved him_.

 

Pulling a shirt from the pile of laundry on the dresser he pulled it on and opened the door, wincing at the squeal of the hinges as he pushed it open. Stepping quietly to the top of the stairs, he looked down at the living room below and sighed. Pete was curled up on the couch, wrapped in the fuzzy batman blanket his brother had gotten Patrick for his birthday last year, huge headphones socketed over his ears. They glowed dimly in the darkness, but Patrick could just make out a bottle of water and the open pain-pill bottle. Doubtless Pete’s knee was loudly complaining at its punishment, and he sighed. There was no use trying to pull Pete out of it when he was like this, hunched up and curled in like he was trying to protect his vulnerabilities. Half of him wanted to still _try_ , to go make two cups of tea and slide one into Pete’s hands, to nestle under the blanket with him and pull him close. To run soothing fingers through the short hair at the base of his head and massage away the tension and press soft kisses to his temples as he asked him what was bothering him.

 

But that would have worked _before_...not now. Not when Pete was barricaded in on himself and disturbing him would very likely mean another argument, another screaming match, another door slamming.

 

With a sigh, he went back into the bedroom and closed the door quietly before sinking into a bed that felt even more lonely than normal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be angst here, folks! Thick as pea soup! =D I hope you'll forgive me for all the pain I'm going to be putting them through in the near future! I apologize updates have been so sporadic--I'm out of town on work and life has been hectic. Many thanks to SnitchesandTalkers for encouraging (and screaming and shaking her figurative finger at me) to finish this chapter, and for also forgiving me for getting drunk instead of writing it last night :P I'm honestly not THRILLED with how this turned out, but you know how sometimes you just gotta post and move on? This is one of those times. But thank you so much for reading, and get out your umbrella, it's gonna get dark and stormy soon!

 

It was a bright day, the sun shining and the ocean lapping lazily to their right as Patrick drove down the highway, windows down to let the last remnants of fall into the car before it turned to winter. Pete was humming companionably as they went along, some top 40s hit that would doubtless become overplayed in a few weeks, Taylor Swift he was pretty sure, but he didn’t care. He simply took the way his heart unclenched a bit to see Pete smiling and singing along, and pushed away the old desire to tease him about it. A year ago, it would have been the most natural thing in the world to joke that he was going to get Pete a T-swizzle lanyard to wear, or a bumper sticker for his truck since he loved her so much...but that wasn’t something you did anymore, not with this Pete.

 

Still, he reflected...it’d only be a week or two more and Pete would be able to drive, and he hoped fervently that would improve his mood. The loss of independence coupled with watching his team leave without him had soured Pete beyond anything Patrick had experienced in their four-year marriage to date...and it had been hard. So hard, but he figured it was just a part of the transition, that this was a horrible season for his husband and that they’d just get through it together. They went over a pothole and Pete practically  _ hunkered _ down in his seat, eyes darting around for a split second before sitting back up and resuming his singing, albeit with a bit less vigor. Patrick reached over and squeezed Pete’s knee, but after a moment he just returned his hand to the steering wheel when he didn’t react, didn’t take his hand or smile.

 

Pulling up to the dull-colored Physical Therapy building, Patrick turned the radio down and gave Pete his best smile. “I’ll be back in an hour, okay? Call me if you finish up early.” Nodding, Pete gave him a half-hearted wave and shut the door, and he sighed.  _ It’s better than nothing _ he thought, and then opened his phone to text Brendon, one of his best friends from the Preschool. 

 

<< _ be there in 5>> _

 

Pulling into the hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant just off the base, he parked and went inside, spying Brendon at a table in the back by virtue of his manic waving. He sat down and ran a hand across his forehead before replacing his worn 30th Intelligence Squadron hat. “Hey buddy, how’s life?” 

 

“Oh you know.” Brendon grinned. “Listening to professors teach me things they probably haven’t done in fifteen years, it’s great.” 

 

“That bad?” Patrick wrinkled his nose in sympathy as he peered over the menu quickly, deciding to stick to his favorite dish. They ordered quickly and then he took a long sip of his glass of ice water. “Are you not glad you went back to school?”

 

“No, I mean, I miss my kids like so bad, but it’s good that I did it when I did...otherwise I think I never would have done it, you know?” He sipped his creamy Thai Tea and Patrick considered ordering one of his own. “How’s Isaac?” 

 

Smiling, Patrick’s eyes lit up. “He’s doing so great dude, you’d be so proud of him! I check on him like at least once a week, and Maryanne says that he’s showing tons of improvement. He’s really into sharks right now, so I guess she’s had to learn to interpret what he’s saying with lots of snapping mixed in.” They laughed, and Brendon clapped his hands like a five year old. 

 

“I’m so fucking glad dude. That kid’s something special.” They talked some more, Patrick catching him up on the life and times of his previous year’s class of kids, telling him some of their recent antics, and sharing the teacher-level gossip. Their food arrived, and sniffed appreciatively before digging in with gusto. Around a mouthful of noodles--Patrick swore sometimes he actually  _ was  _ a five year old like their students--Brendon broke into the silence. “So are you still thinking of going back to school, too?” 

 

Patrick winced. “I don’t know. Things are...rough.” 

 

“Like how?” Wide brown eyes narrowed as Brendon heard the hesitancy in his voice. “Okay, bro, spill. What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing, it’s just not a good time right now, I don’t think.” Patrick took another bite of his meal, but Brendon was on the scent now. 

 

“Nah-uh. That’s not all, now tell me what’s wrong or I’ll dump the whole plate of peppers into your Pho.” 

 

“I’d still eat it.” He tried to smile, but heaved a sigh. “We just have so much going on, and I don’t think Pete could handle it right now. I just...don’t know, Bren. I’m trying really hard to be like...super understanding and supportive, but he’s just...he’s not  _ Pete  _ anymore, you know?” He looked into his soup bowl morosely, like if he stared hard enough he could find the answer. “Like, he’s so distant, and he’s been... _ mean _ lately. He’s never been mean, you know? He was the considerate one, the one who always had a joke or something to make you feel better? Now he just wallows and when I try to talk to him or whatever he snaps at me. And, something really weird happened a while ago.” Sparing the intimate details, he told Brendon about the incident in bed...and Brendon winced sympathetically. 

 

“You know, not to play armchair shrink or anything, but I  _ am _ in some pretty heavy classes right now about this stuff, and it sounds like he could have PTSD.” 

 

“Somehow I find it hard to believe that your early childhood psych classes relate, but then again this is Pete we’re talking about.” Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know...I mean, I guess? He hasn’t seemed any more...troubled than normal, you know? He’s always had his things but...I don’t know.” He sighed before giving Brendon a smile that was equal parts  _ what-are-you-gonna-do  _ and  _ don’t-worry-it’ll-be-okay. _ “How’s Ryan?” 

 

Brendon made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Oh long gone, has it really been that long since I’ve seen you? Damn, well no, he was a whiny little bitch. I broke up with him  _ months _ ago.” 

 

“Glad you finally saw what the rest of us already knew.” Patrick grinned and dodged as Brendon threw his balled-up straw cover at him. 

 

“Whatever. It was fun while it lasted. Now I’m seeing this girl named Sarah. She’s fucking  _ incredible _ dude.” 

 

“Please tell me she’s at least twenty.” Patrick remembered back to some of the less-scrupulous dalliances he’d heard about over the two years they worked together.

 

“Twenty-two,  _ thank you _ .” Laughing at himself, Brendon chomped on an ice cube as he signaled for their checks. “But no, you guys should come like, double date with us or something. It’d be way fun.” Patrick agreed, though privately he wondered if that would really be a good thing--sometimes Pete would shrug away his mood and pull out all the stops when they would go out, a bright, cheery imitation of the person he used to be. Other times he would shrink, sullen and monosyllabic into himself and leave Patrick struggling to carry on the conversation in the sudden vacuum. He sighed mentally as his phone beeped that it had been 45 minutes and it was time to pick Pete back up before heading back into work. 

 

~//~

 

The sun was shining cheerfully through the windows as Patrick stretched out, arching his back to work out the sleep-kinks along his spine. His foot moved and  _ didn’t  _ come in contact with anyone else, and he couldn’t help the tiny sigh that fell from his lips that it was another lazy saturday he was waking up alone. 

 

Rolling onto his stomach, he clutched his pillow to his chest and cracked his eyes open to stare blearily at where Pete  _ should  _ have been. He thought back to all the mornings they’d spent together on long-awaited weekends back when they’d been dating--one of them flying across the country to arrive tired and smelling of airport just for the pleasure of not waking up in bed alone. He smiled as he thought back to the morning after Pete had made his impromptu flight out to Virginia to tell him in great heaving gasps that he was done with the SEALs because he needed to be with Patrick more. His mind drifted back, unbidden into the memory…

 

_ “I decided months ago, Pete. I’m done, I’m done waking up every day alone, I’m done with watching death every day. I did my time, I served, I did my part. I want my life to be with you.”  _

 

_ Saying the words felt like  _ coming home _ , like the puzzle piece he'd always known didn’t actually fit was suddenly clicking into place. The look on Pete’s face was indescribable--shock, disbelief, joy, all smearing over with tears and heartbreaking loneliness. He reaches out for Patrick, hands firm and sure as he knits their fingers together. “Are you sure?”  _

 

_ “Absolutely.”  _

 

_ The smile that blooms over his face was luminous, achingly bright as he pulls Patrick in, pressing their lips together in a kiss that tastes a little of airline peanuts and a lot like perfect. He hums under his breath as Pete’s hands slide under his t-shirt, skittering across his skin and he can’t help the way he sighed into his mouth as Pete wraps his arms around him, bodies melting together like waves crashing on the seashore. He pulls and Pete follows, moving blindly into the bedroom as they kiss with reckless abandon, clothes falling to the floor in a trail of desire.  _

 

_ Pete tumbles to the bed and pulls him down--the person he wants to be with more than he wants anything in the world. Patrick smiles at his moan as he presses  soft, reverent kisses to his neck, hands trailing down to tweak his nipples and play over them softly, to guide Pete’s legs around his waist and melt closer.  _

 

_ A blinding wave of need crashes through him and he chokes out a plea. “Can I?” It’s a whisper of a prayer, fingers dancing lightly on the smooth skin of Pete’s ass, rubbing circles that he knows could get larger, could venture closer with a whisper of assent. Instantly, Pete’s whispering a litany of yesyesyesyes as he presses his lips to Patrick’s and holds on for the ride. As he reaches into the bedside table and pulls a small bottle of lube from it, he’s bowled over by how much he NEEDS. It’s more than the sparkling ecstasy of release or the way Pete’s body is the greatest place in the universe...it’s the overwhelming ache to be home, to push into the one place he wants to be forever, to unite with the person he loves more than anything.  _

 

 _“I love you.” He whispers as he slides slicked fingers into him, holding back a gasp at the way he clenches and responds instantly, body asking for more even as he gives it. They had said the words almost six months ago, wrapped in a blanket next to the fire under a midnight California sky, the surf crashing to the shore a counterpoint to the whispered sentiment. Pete’s eyes had lit up like fireflies when he heard the whispered words against his shoulder, turning to look at him with eyes wide as his smile and had shouted_ _in exultation._

 

_ Now Patrick whispered it as he opens him up, whispers his love into all the cracks and crevices of Pete’s soul as he pushes into him and they both moan. He moves with infinite care until he bottoms out and Pete’s eyes flicker open to meet his.  _

 

_ “You’re sure? You promise?”  _

 

_ “Yes.” He breathes as he thrusts into him, watching the way his pulse ticks at his throat. “I promise.” He thrusts again, sending sparks of pleasure rolling through Pete as his words tumble around them like rose petals. “I want you.” (Hands clenching into the sheets) “You’re everything.” (the gentle bow of his back as he lets it skitter through him) “Just you.” (a moan that arcs right into his own soul as Pete’s mouth finds his and his fingers trace words he’ll never know across his skin).  _

 

_ “Patrick…” Pete cries out, overwhelmed as he builds momentum, making their bodies vibrate with passion, with ecstasy as he tries to melt the truth of it into his flesh, his bones. “Love you, love you so much.”  _

 

_ He whispers it back, pressing biting kisses to his neck and whispering a jumble of “mine” and “always” and “my Pete” as a strange possessiveness overtakes him and his mouth turns sharper as he’s consumed by the need to stake his claim, to be assured that this is real and it’s never going away. Pete is gasping a harsh litany of “yes” and “yours” and he feels the peak nearing, he feels all the parts of his body contracting and constricting all towards the the impending fall. Desperate, he snakes his hand between them both and wraps it around Pete’s cock, smearing the wetness at the tip around the head and using it to slick downwards with the barest hint of pressure, dragging the skin against the hard pulse of blood and back up.  _

 

_ With a shout Pete comes, a startled gasp of his name that’s high and surprised like he was barreling over a cliff, like the floor dropped out from under him. They tumble down together as he clenches in the most delicious way, pulling a deep, rumbling groan from his own lungs as he presses his mouth to Pete’s to claim him, to drink down his cries and give him back his own breath in return.  _

 

_ A while later, wiped clean but still sticky, he’s tracing something into the skin of Pete’s back--it could be the road networks of Afghanistan, it could be the way communications bounce off a staggering array of antennas, it could be his wedding vows--and Pete presses into his neck. A soft kiss is laid where his pulse is just starting to slow and he whispers the words like a gift.  _

 

_ “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”  _

  
  


With a sigh, Patrick shuts off his alarm as it starts to blare that it’s time to get out of bed. He sets his phone on the night stand and his eye catches their wedding picture, rolling over to cradle his pillow to his chest and stare. They looked so  _ happy _ , standing on the beach with the wind blowing his hair into his face and Pete’s smile practically lighting the picture with its intensity. He wonders how they had gotten here, how they had tumbled down into this canyon of isolation and anger. 

 

_ Maybe today’s the day we could figure it out. It doesn’t have to be like this _ . He thinks as he plants his feet on the floor. He had done some googling the previous night when Pete was in the shower and he felt like he had a pretty good grasp of what was going on...maybe they could fix it. 

 

Padding downstairs, he spied Pete sitting on one of the high bar stools at the counter, eating what smelled like oatmeal. He grunted a greeting, and Patrick responded with a smile and a  _ good morning, handsome.  _ Serving himself a bowl, he poured coffee into a mug and brought it over so he could face his husband across the island. 

 

“Sleep good?” 

 

Pete didn’t look up from his phone where he was scrolling through what looked like a roster of some sort, and just shrugged. Biting back the part of him that wanted to snap that  _ he was there and maybe deserved a bit of attention too?, _ he just waited, taking long sips of his coffee. 

 

“Um, did you want something?” Pete asked, looking up as he noticed for what seemed like the first time that he was actually there. 

 

“Yeah, I…” He floundered, courage temporarily faltering, but he told himself he was trying to help, that he was doing this out of love. “I’ve been thinking. I think..you’ve gone through a lot in the last six months, you know? What happened with Chase, your injury, not getting to go on this deployment...I know it’s been really awful for you.” He didn’t miss the way Pete stiffened a tiny bit at the mention of Chase, and he mentally crossed his fingers for luck that he could do this right, that he could get his point across. “I was thinking...maybe you could talk to someone about it? Maybe it could help you kinda put some of those things to bed?” 

 

Mouth hardening into a thin line as he spoke, Pete shook his head sharply. “I don’t need to talk, I’m fine. It's just more important to move on.” 

 

“Babe, please. You’re--you’re tense all the time, and I know you haven’t been sleeping as well. Please, I just, I just want to see you smile again.” He tried to mold his face into something that looked understanding and hopeful without being petulant, but Pete shook his head sharply. 

 

“Talking to some shrink isn’t going to change that shit happened, it’s done and over.” He shoveled another spoonful in his mouth. “I’ve moved on.” 

 

“You haven’t.” Patrick reached across to take his hand, heart clenching when Pete pulled it away. “You’re--it’s pulling you under, and it’s killing me to watch it. I just want you to be okay, I just want us to be good again and you to be happy.” He looked down at his oatmeal and willed his voice not to shake. “I just want  _ my _ Pete back.” 

 

There was a sharp noise as Pete crashed his empty mug into the countertop. “I’m  _ right the fuck here _ , Patrick.” His voice rose and Patrick couldn’t help but curl in on himself a bit, taking half a step back. “You just need to take a fucking chill pill and back the fuck off, alright? I mean, shit, nothing’s changed and I thought you’d be  _ happy _ I was here, not being a whiny little brat about it.” 

 

“That’s--”

 

“No, you know what, I’m sick of this. Nothing I do is good enough for you apparently, but maybe if you actually like tried being a bit more mature yourself, maybe if you weren’t such a fucking social butterfly with your teachers groups and shit, maybe if you actually pulled your head out of your ass and noticed what the fuck is going on around you, maybe  _ then _ I’d smile more for your Royal Highness!” 

 

He could feel his blood boiling, he could feel the last shred of restraint fly out the window as Pete’s words thundered out and lodged in his brain like nails. “This is  _ exactly _ what I’m talking about Pete,  _ this  _ is the shit you need to go talk to someone about, because I don’t fucking deserve you treating me like this! I’m your husband for crying out loud, we’re supposed to be on the same side!”

 

“Well sorry I can’t be what you fucking deserve, then.” Grabbing his phone, Pete turned towards the living room, not even looking back as he fired his final shot. “Then again, I don’t think anyone  _ can.”  _

 

There was the clattering clinking noise of Pete grabbing his keys and the slamming of the front door...and Patrick was left to the echoing silence and the sharp, acidic sting of verbal vitriol. He stared at Pete’s bowl of half-eaten oatmeal and the empty coffee cup, fighting against the tears clustering in his eyes as he wondered if he’d ever get his husband back. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends!!!!! I'm *SO* sorry it's been pretty much a literal age since I updated this! I blame BBB entirely, but that means you're going to get to enjoy an effusion of amazing fan work soon! Now I'm back though, the behemoth is written, and ohhhhhh the angst I'm going to make you experience. Forgive me...but I'm hoping that you see a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel at the conclusion of this chapter. Or maybe a bit of the road that's ahead--yes it's uphill, but it's a road!
> 
> *HUGE,* gigantic, literally all-encompassing thanks goes to @Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace for giving me an actual gold mine of information, help, inspiration and brilliance for this chapter! Without her it would be a pale, totally-incorrect rendering, so thank you darling! Any further mistakes or mischaracterizations are all mine, and I'm open to any and all concrit! It's a long chapter...but just consider that my apology. I promise to update more regularly (though I'll never get to @Snitchesandtalkers level of consistent updates!) and I so appreciate you sticking with me! WARNING: there is a bit of rough language in this chapter, so just be advised!

Rolling over only to find that position made it _brighter_ behind his eyelids, Pete blinked awake to a sunshine-filled Tuesday morning. He stretched, rolling out the kinks in his back as he straightened his legs, noting happily that his knee didn’t protest _too_ loudly, and looked at his watch. It's black face informed him that it was currently 0627 and he grinned.

 

Patrick grunted next to him, the movement dislodging some of his Fortress of Solitude comprised of blankets and pillows as Pete’s foot slipped along his calf. He was warm and firm, and Pete sighed as he burrowed under the comforter to pull him close, burying his face into his neck to breathe in _Patrick_. That unique combination of those hippy Lavender Fields all natural dryer sheets he had gotten from a kid as a fundraiser but then fell in love with, sweat mixed with a hint of cologne and what Pete could only describe as sunshine. Patrick melted against him, heavy with sleep and he sighed--when had he stopped cuddling with his husband? It felt way too good and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually just savored the moment, the way his skin was velvet soft where his t-shirt rucked up in his sleep and his hair was a feather-fine mess of bedhead and that herbal shampoo he liked.

 

Hands twined with his and he could feel when Patrick actually woke up--the infinitesimal tension that accompanied wakefulness and awareness. He wished they could both just stay relaxed forever, without the hard line of adult responsibilities and worries.

 

“--time is it?” Patrick’s voice was husky with drowsiness, rough like sandpaper and waves on the seashore.

 

“Six-thirty. Go back to sleep.” He murmured, and for a moment he expected Patrick to stiffen further and argue back--he’d been doing that so much lately. But instead he didn’t, he just nodded woodenly and nuzzled into his pillow, hand tightening for a minute around his own as he pulled him closer. But then everything smoothed out, slack and relaxed as he drifted back to sleep and Pete just breathed him in.

 

~//~

 

Balancing was significantly overrated, he decided as he righted himself again on the balance ball and stared intently at the point on the wall he had picked as ‘his’ spot. He had made it to a solid minute before toppling over last week and he was determined to beat that record now. The doc had said he’d only need to do physical therapy for a month more, two at the very most, and his knee should be healed enough for him to start training again. One more month and he could be _him_ again--no more moping and feeling useless, no more blues and frustration. _God_ he just wanted to howl at the blue sky at the thought of not being a fucking loser anymore.

 

A distant shudder shook the building and he felt his body tense unconsciously as he reminded himself frantically it was a generator test, he’d heard it announced over the intercom when he walked into the clinic. Muscles suddenly clenched in panic despite his mental hushing, he toppled off the ball just in time for the lights to snap out with a groan. Red light bathed the space as emergency lights illuminated in the split second afterwards, spinning discs swirling the crimson beams around and around...

 

At that moment, something snapped in Pete--the stark white walls and eerie medical posters of knees and shoulders exploded into tendons and sinews slipped away in a blare of red light--

 

And he’s _back_. He’s crouched behind a crumbling wall of mud and feces and straw and rock, eyes tracking through the dust swirling around them and the incessant brightness of the sunlight. He feels the brief thrill of combat rush through him as his muscles coil to spring up as Barney’s team darts forward with the clinical precision that they’d trained endlessly to attain, like an arrow shot from a bow. From the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of movement--a whisper of shadow twisting in an alcove that could be either a child huddled in fear or an insurgent lining up his shot and his rifle is up, covering, searching--

 

_CRACK!_

 

The shot is like a thunderclap in his suddenly-ringing ears, coming from the west, the shadow in the alcove resolving into nothing more than a fluttering rag. For months he had wondered if there had _actually_ been anything behind it, or if his split second of indecision had been what caused it all. But he can’t think about that right now, because all he can see is _Mardoux falling_ , the bright red blood spilling from his neck as he tumbles to the ground--the ground that is shuddering under their feet as an IED goes off under the first humvee, the shockwave rolling out like the tide that brings a gust of choking dust and burning debris. He’s scrambling forward to cover Steele and Widman as they’re pulling Mardoux back and behind the relative safety of the wall, eyes tracking for the sniper, almost _daring_ him to take another shot _. Here I am, motherfucker, take the shot and pay for it you fuckin--_ His mental challenge is blocked out by the _tat-tat-tat_ of rifle fire as his team starts to exchange rounds with surgical precision and he hears Hileston’s normally stoic voice shouting into the radio as Steele rattles off stats and numbers.

 

“ _Line one, Five Six Sierra Foxtrot Juliet Niner Five One-One Niner Five Four Six-Six Eight. Line Two, four niner four decimal seven two. Line Three, Alpha One--”_

 

His transmission is cut off as blood sprays from his temple, fragments of brain and bone covering Mardoux’s still body in a grotesque mist as his knees buckle and the radio falls from his hand. Steele howls as he grabs for him, pulling him down to the base of the wall, his hands covered in crimson blood. Silence fills his brain alongside a high-pitched buzz, a whine like he used to hear from the fluorescent lights in middle school and he swings around to see his team decimated, rifles clutched in lifeless hands. A scream bubbles from his lungs as he crouches behind the wall, Steele’s eyes wide and white in his dark face as he tracks for the sniper, looking...a thunderclap and the desperate gurgling sound brings him back to the fire and wreckage as he sees blood flowing from Steele’s neck, bubbling down over his flak vest, soaking his medical gear in a taunt to his own mortality. His mouth opens once, closes, and all Pete sees is _Red,_ red _everywhere…_

 

“Someone grab his arm, don’t let his head--”

 

There’s a flash of white coat, incongruous in the dust and fire-strewn Afghani landscape, and then his head is hitting the unforgiving linoleum anyways. The last thing he sees is the perfect squares of a drop ceiling with a red light spinning, spinning, spinning...

  


~//~

 

 _He looks so small._ The word _weak_ echoes and bounces around Patrick’s mind, but he pushes it away, berating himself for even thinking it. Pete is _not_ weak, Pete is the strongest person he knows. They’d figure this out.

 

“Mr. Stump?” A voice sounded to his right, pulling him out of his contemplation of his husband through the small window, and he turned to see a Navy Captain with a kindly smile, crows’ feet liberally crinkling at the corners of his eyes and dark hair peppered with gray. “I’m Dr. Todd Lederman, pleasure to meet you, though I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.” He held out his hand and Patrick shook it, feeling suddenly at ease for no real reason beyond the doctor _looked_ like someone kind and understanding.

 

“Yeah, finding him in hospital beds is getting old.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he realized what an incredible _asshole_ he sounded like. “God, I didn’t mean it like _that_ , I’m so sorry, I--”

 

“I quite understand, Mr. Stump.” The smile was back on his face, sincere but not condescending. “You’ve both been through a lot, and nobody _wants_ their spouse in a hospital bed.” Patrick nodded gratefully, still chagrined, as the doctor gestured. “Will you come down to my office for a bit of a chat? He’ll be out for a few more hours, I promise.”

 

They fell into step and Patrick couldn’t help but ask the question that nobody would answer, that had instantly presented itself as soon as he saw Pete. “Why is he in restraints, Doctor? Did he... _do_ something?”

 

“Not in the way you’re thinking, son.” Dr. Lederman pushed open a door covered with unit stickers and motioned him through. “He was putting up a hell of a fight, but he didn’t know what was going on. It was for everyone’s protection--the staff and his own. We didn't want him to try to claw his way out thinking he was being attacked.”

 

“Attacked?” Patrick sat in an armchair covered in blue fabric with purple dots. “Why would he think that? He was just at physical therapy, that’s not exactly high-risk.”

 

Dr. Lederman sat down behind his desk and pushed aside a stack of papers before taking a file from another stack and opening it. “Patrick--may I call you Patrick?” At the murmured _of course_ , he nodded and continued. “What do you know about PTSD?”

 

Shifting, Patrick picked at a thread that was coming out of one of the seams. “I mean...just the stuff they tell you when you come home? I had to do all my post-deployment screenings and they talk about that stuff.” Opening a drawer, the doctor pulled out piece of paper and clipped it to a clipboard before sliding it across the desk.

 

“I want you to look at that list and put a checkmark next to anything you’ve noticed your husband doing, okay?” He held out a pen that Patrick took absently, already reading through the list.

 

_Easily upset at mention of the traumatic event. Nightmares. Distant or disinterested in things that were previously important (working out, sex, children, etc.). Constantly vigilant. Easily startled by normal events. Angry outbursts. Difficulty sleeping. Avoiding certain places or topics of conversation. Increase in alcohol consumption. Significant weight gain caused by a sudden disinterest in exercise. Sudden or significant increase in time spent at work, often self-motivated. Pulling away from loved ones. Flashbacks with or without disassociation. Easily frustrated, often exacting or petty in fault-finding._

 

There were checks next to nearly every item, with the exception of a few...and as he neared the end of the list, Patrick felt a growing sense of failure burgeoning inside him, like a bubble that was growing larger at each mark he made. Finishing, he handed it back to the doctor feeling like he had been punched in the chest. “He has it, doesn’t he? And I missed it.”

 

Eyes moving swiftly over the checked boxes, Dr. Lederman gave him a sad but compassionate smile. “Don’t beat yourself up, Patrick, you’re not the first spouse to miss it and I guarantee you won’t be the last. It’s often incredibly hard to spot the changes when you’re the closest one, kind of like it’s hard to put together a puzzle without looking at the box every five seconds for perspective. When you’re married to someone, it’s very hard to find that perspective sometimes, because you love them.”

 

Regardless of the consolation, Patrick dropped his head to his hands, _months_ of anger and resentment towards Pete crashing down around him and pointing accusing fingers that he had _missed it_. He should have been there, he should have been helping Pete instead of getting angry at him, he should have been the person who held him up not the one who pulled him down.

 

“Hey, now you listen to me, son.” The doctor rapped his knuckles sharply on the desk, the sound making him look up involuntarily. “You can blame yourself--completely needlessly I might add--for something you are in the best position to miss, _or_ we can talk about the best way forward for your husband. Because _you_ are the greatest ally he has in this, and he’s going to need you.”

 

“But...I missed it. How can I help him when I missed it all the first time?”

 

“Because now you _do_ know. Because for all the jokes and ribbing about chairs and five-star hotels, no Airman would leave a fallen comrade behind.” The doctor pulled out another piece of paper and wrote something on the top-- _SNAP_ . “And most importantly because I _know_ you love him, and that makes you the _very_ best person for the job.”

 

Snuffling and willing himself not to cry guilty tears that would do nobody any good, Patrick nodded as he squared his shoulders. “Let’s do it.”

 

~//~

 

_“It’s THERE, the sniper is just over that ridge, can’t you see the muzzle flash?? Someone get me a radio, call me a F-16, a B-1, ANYTHING to take that goddamned donkey-fucking piece of shit out! He killed Mardoux, he killed Steele, he killed Hileston, he killed Widman--my team’s fucking GONE. Just let me go, let me up, I can get to him, I can make it, just gotta GET THE FUCK UP….”_

 

It felt like swimming through jello, like trying to breathe in a strong wind, like rowing against the current. All those things would have been easier than piercing the haze that clouded his mind, that made his limbs feel like they weighed a thousand pounds. He edged towards awareness in degrees, inch by slow, sloughing inch. Finally, he felt like his brain finally fit back into his head, and he could slowly filter in information from his slumbering senses. The scratchiness of the material underneath him coupled with the faint anesthetic-and-paint-thinner smell told him the unfortunate fact that he was--once again--in a medical facility. Sternly ordering his eyes to open, he blinked twice to see a young woman in mint green scrubs sitting next to his bed.

 

 _Huh_. His sluggish brain churned out confusion as he tried to look around, but his muscles didn’t want to listen to him quite yet.

 

“Petty Officer Wentz, I’m HM2 Li. How are you feeling?” The woman’s voice was higher than he expected, soothing but not childlike and he succeeded in blinking at her again.

 

“Whaa--happened…” His tongue felt like lead, _why_ was it so hard to find the words he needed?

 

“You had an episode while at physical therapy. You’re safe now, though, don’t be concerned. Can you tell me what you remember?”

 

His brain was clearing by degrees, a blundering, stumbling drunkard that just wouldn't cooperate. He _wanted_ to grit his teeth and growl at himself in frustration, he _wanted_ a full sentence to come out of his mouth like it was rattling around in his head, but none of those things seemed to be cooperating at the moment, and he _hated_ it. He cast back, trying to remember what had happened at Physical Therapy, but his memories of Monster Walks and balancing were shot through with something flashing red, something hitting his head. He just _couldn’t remember._ His nose itched, and he sternly ordered his arm to _wake the fuck up and get with the program_ before trying to lift it for a good scratch.

 

But it didn’t work, not because his muscles were rebelling or his brain had suddenly forgotten how to transmit messages through the winding synapses...because there was a cuff around his wrist.

 

Suddenly all the air was gone from the room, squeezed from his lungs as he realized with a shock _all_ of his limbs were cuffed with soft Velcro that nevertheless meant he couldn’t move more than a few inches off the bed. A feeling of incongruous claustrophobia closed in on him, all he could feel was the weight of Mardoux’s limp body against his as they carried him to the Blackhawk that had descended like a bird of prey. Something was _there_ , crushing him, lungs unable to expand and he realized it was _Mardoux’s coffin_ , it was on top of him, it was _killing him_ as he thrashed out from under it--

 

“ _Pete!”_ Gentle hands were on his face and he opened his eyes (when had he closed them again?) to see Patrick above him, blue-green eyes wide and filled with worry. Someone was screaming and by some miracle he could hear it over the drone of the helo’s blades, _why was there a fucking Blackhawk at the goddamned funeral?_ It was so _loud_ , could they just _shut up for five seconds_ ? He had a fucking _coffin_ on top of him for fuck’s sake…

 

“If we can’t get him to calm down, we’ll have to medicate him again.” A voice he didn’t know cut through the screaming, only for it to change inexplicably in timbre and intensity.

 

“No, just give me another second, _please_ .” Patrick’s brow furrowed at someone Pete couldn’t spare a moment to look for, and he realized he _could actually hear him._ But then the coffin was settling deeper over his chest and he could feel his ribs cracking under the strain, his heart pounding a desperate staccato as it tried vainly to push back. He gritted his eyes closed as he _tried_ to push it off...no joy. He was going to die, _he was going to die…_ But then something shockingly cold was pushed into his left hand sending spears of ice through his arm, starting to numb it in that odd way cold things do where it was pressed to his skin. Suddenly the whirring _thump thump thump_ of the blackhawk’s rotor blades were no longer pounding in his ears, and Patrick’s words floated to him. “Pete, you’re having a panic attack. It isn’t real. I need you to feel the ice, feel how cold it is. _That’s_ real, not what you’re feeling. Come back, you can do it baby, come back to me.”

 

The hoarse shouting started to soften, dying into terrified whimpers as Pete obeyed, as he focused on the incredible coldness of the ice cube, the way the water felt as it melted and dripped down his palm, the way it shot up his arm feeling like pain and like excitement all at once. The coffin suddenly became a pound lighter, then another pound, and another…

 

He opened his eyes to see Patrick still leaning over him, a smudge of yellow paint on his cheek that looked like he had tried to wipe it away and failed. His eyes were clouded with fear and concern, lower lip bitten between his teeth and a few strands of hair plastered to his damp forehead, like he’d been running. Something like gratitude washed over Pete in that moment, seeing his husband looking so _normal_ ; he reached out to try to take his hand...and couldn’t, the motion stillborn as the cuff restricted his movement. Breath whistled through his parted lips faster, faster--

 

“Hey, I’m right here.” Patrick’s hand was suddenly in his, warm and gentle. “Don’t freak out again babe, please...they’re just there ‘cause you were flailing around in your sleep. It’s okay.” He looked back at the room’s other occupant, a doctor judging by the white coat and grey-flecked hair, and then back at Pete. “Deep breaths for me, sweetheart, watch me now, come on. You can do it.” Patrick breathed in with exaggerated movements and Pete found himself mirroring the motion unconsciously, lungs pulling in oxygen and then releasing it. He realized his throat was sore and wondered why.

 

“That was really well done, Pete.” The doctor came to stand on the other side of the bed, smiling down with something that looked like Christmas Cheer in his eyes. “I’m Dr. Lederman and I’m going to be looking after you. Can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

 

Taking stock, Pete pulled in another breath through his nose, working his jaw that suddenly informed him that it was stiff and sore. “Ook--” he coughed. “--Okay. My throat hurts.”

 

“You were yelling quite a bit, so that’s to be expected.” The doctor brought a small light down, shining it in his eyes before looking up at a screen facing away from them. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

 

Suddenly he _was_ thirsty--parched actually. “Yeah, something to drink’d be great.” He looked between Patrick and the doctor, taking in the worried cast to Patrick’s gaze, the way he watched every movement Pete made with wary caution. “Uh, so can someone tell me why I’m here? What the fuck happened?”

 

Dr. Lederman patted him gently on the shoulder. “Tell you what, I’m going to let you out of those and have the nurse bring you some Gatorade and pudding, and then we’ll go down to my office and talk. I promise I’ll answer all your questions once you’ve eaten, all right?” Pete nodded, grateful beyond words as the cuffs were removed from his wrists and ankles, but when the doctor had finished he fixed him with a commanding stare. “Now, don’t you go heckling Patrick with questions, okay? He’s had a hard day, so both of you just relax and we’ll get this all sorted out in a bit.”

 

He swiped his badge on the small panel that Pete had mistaken for a light switch, and a green light blinked. The door unlocked with a noise that sounded like a prison door being released, and Pete felt a knot of dread settle in his stomach.

 

~//~

 

“Now, Pete I want you to take this and put a check next to anything you’ve experienced since you came back from your last deployment.” Dr. Lederman handed him a clipboard and a pen and he looked over the sheet, titled simply _Factors._ Shrugging, he read down the list, putting a checkmark by _increased vigilance, easily frustrated, spending more time at work,_ and _trouble sleeping._ He handed it back with a shrug.

 

“I’ve always had trouble sleeping, so that’s not really a new thing.” The doctor took the paper, nodding and then pulled an identical one from a folder, handing both back to him.

 

“This top paper lists the same factors, except Patrick answered it.” Pete took a glance and was shocked by the sheer number of red checkmarks next to the lines. Anger, sharp and metallic, bubbled up in his gut as he turned to look at his husband, who was regarding him with something that was close to trepidation.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? I _am not--”_

 

“ _PETE,_ please.” Dr. Lederman’s voice cut through his tirade and Pete sat back, feeling for some reason like he really needed to comply. “Being angry at Patrick isn’t going to help anything. I did this because you need to see that you’re not accurately aware of what’s going on with your body right now, which is understandable, but that’s why you’re here.” Unable to stop himself from shooting Patrick a withering glare stuffed full of the betrayal and anger whistling through him, Pete looked back at the doctor.

 

“Whatever, can you just cut the metaphysical bull and tell me what the fuck happened?”

 

“Better. I can show you.” Dr. Lederman handed him a tablet encased in one of those drop-proof cases, making it look like a little kid’s toy. Pete took it, seeing himself balanced on the Bosu ball at PT and felt a momentary thrill of pride as he mentally congratulated himself for that fine-ass balancing. But then the feed flickered, going black for a moment then returning bathed in strobing red light. Shock froze his blood as he saw himself, now crouched with a stabilization pole clenched in his hands like a rifle, screaming and jabbing it at anyone who came close. Two nurses advanced towards him and he backed into the corner, crouched in a defensive posture he’d taken hundreds of times just before the door was breached or the frag grenade was tossed through the doorway. He jabbed his pole at them, catching one in the stomach as the other lunged at him, wrestling it from his grasp before a third slid into the frame. The Pete on the screen was thrashing, screaming and terrified even without the sound to convey his terror, and he could only watch in stunned silence as the newcomer jabbed a syringe into his arm only for his flailing hand to catch her across the face. But whatever she had given him had been enough for him to stumble, sagging against the restraining arms of the nurses before tumbling to the ground in a heap of elbows and suddenly-lax limbs. The video clip froze as it ended, and he just stared at the last, frozen frame--his body slumped to the ground.

 

“Pete?” Patrick’s voice was soft as a gentle hand curled around his arm and he looked up out of muscle memory, habit propelling his head up to meet misty blue eyes. “I know that was scary to watch...but it’s gonna be okay. We’re going to get through this.”

 

Nodding as his throat worked, trying vainly to swallow, Pete set the tablet on the desk at looked at the doctor. “What...what the fuck was that?”

 

“Why don’t you tell me what you remember first?” The doctor’s question sent him backwards, reeling and stumbling through his head as he tried to figure out what the fuck he had just seen.

 

“I--I remember balancing, I was trying to beat my time from last week.” He rubbed his neck with his right hand, Patrick’s warm hold on his left forearm grounding him and suddenly he didn’t want to lose that. “Then...it’s just fuzzy. I thought I was dreaming, like...I took a nap and just had a crazy dream.”

 

“Have you had dreams like that before?”

 

“Yeah.” He shook his head, hoping the motion would clear it so he could remember but with no success. “What happened?”

 

“We call that a dissociative episode, Pete, and it’s a severe but common symptom of PTSD.”

 

 _“I DON’T FUCKING HAVE PTSD, I’M FINE, YOU HEAR ME!”_ His voice echoed as he leapt to his feet, bouncing back at him in the small room, irate and filled with disproportionate accusations. He was expecting Patrick to jump up too and argue, the dickish little fucker, but instead everyone just stayed silent and weathered his tirade.

 

Dr. Lederman lifted a bushy eyebrow in gentle accusation. “That sheet of symptoms _plus_ that video _plus_ that little outburst say you do, Pete. I know that’s hard to hear and it’s totally understandable to need take some time to process that...but you’re going to _need_ to accept it.”

 

Feeling like a sail robbed of the breeze, he flopped back into the chair, limp and spent, and the wood grain on the front of the desk was suddenly incredibly interesting. Pete’s eyes followed it as thoughts whirled around his brain like they were circling a drain--he _couldn’t_ have PTSD, _other_ people got that, _not_ him. He just had a few more weeks, a month of PT left and everything was going to be _normal_ , it was going to be _alright_ …

 

“What’s that Pete?”

 

Looking up, he realized he had been mumbling and shook his head--the motion quick and sharp like he was trying to clear water from his ears. “It--it’s supposed to all be okay in a month. It was all going to go back to _normal…_ ”

 

“Ah, you’re referencing your knee injury?” He nodded miserably and Dr. Lederman took another folder from the stack. “Yes, I see your orthopedist reports you’re doing quite well in rehab, which is good, but that wouldn't have made things be _normal_.” He fixed Pete with a gaze that was somewhere between fatherly and commanding. “Your knee would have just been back to normal, but all those symptoms would have still been there. It was just a matter of time until this happened--I’m just glad it was somewhere where you could be taken care of properly.”

 

“You’re sure it’s PTSD? Maybe I just breathed something in over there, you know those burn pits--”

 

He fell silent at the solemn way the doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no. I’ve been doing this a long time, son, and the signs are unmistakable. Before you ask, this could lead to a Medical Board convening to determine if you’re fit to continue your duties, but let’s cross that bridge when we get to it, alright? ”

 

It felt like a weight settled on him as he hung his head--he could almost feel it locking into place around his neck--oppressively final and immutable. _I will not fucking cry, dammit_. Breathing through his nose, he stared at the knotted whorl in the desk and tried to get a hold of himself. “So…what now? What do I do?”

 

Patrick’s hands slid around his own--warm and sure--and he looked up to meet his eyes. There was compassion there, concern and fear, but love...so much love. Had it been there this whole time and he missed it? His lips tucked into the tiniest smile, and he squeezed Pete’s hand gently. “ _We._ What _we_ are going to do is figure it out. Together.”

 

He looked down at their hands, at the topaz stones inlaid in Patrick’s wedding band glinting softly in the fluorescent light, and the words _in sickness and in health_ flitted across his mind. Who’d have ever thought _he’d_ be the sick one? Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Dr. Lederman and nodded.

 

“Okay.”  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my dears, my dears...remember how I told you last chapter that it was the worst it was gonna get? Blame my insane work schedule, blame the copious amounts of vodka that I drink on the weekends...but I lied. Forgive me. Just remember I love ALL of you, and I PINKY PROMISE this is the very bottom. (Snitches, I can see you glaring at me) 
> 
> WARNING: for descriptions of anxiety attacks, dissociation and a bit of gore.

It wasn’t that getting over a massively traumatic event wasn’t amazing and exciting and everything he’d ever wanted…it was just that it was  _ also  _ God-awful. Like...worse than sitting in full gear inside of a humvee as all your teammates ripped ass because they ate the BBQ Ribs Meal Ready to Eat the night before and realized you were  _ totally _ right about it not being meat. 

 

Come to think of that, he’d give basically anything to be in just that situation...because that would mean he’d be team leader again, he wouldn’t be on medical hold and unable to carry a weapon. 

 

He'd be  _ normal _ . 

 

Normal was becoming a rapidly-shrinking memory...and the farther it slipped away, the angrier he became. Angry at the doctors who poked and prodded at all the vulnerable, cracked parts of himself with unblinking tenacity. Things he had wrapped in layers of stories and clever lines and deflections that had worked for his whole life but were now regularly being ripped away, shredded under the ruthless gaze of clinical psychology. He was angry at his teammates, though he didn’t let that out--it wasn’t their fault after all. Barney was doing a kick-ass job of leading the team and that just served to make him slip deeper into a self-mutilating spiral of fury and doubt. He was angry at his commander, who refused to see that he was  _ okay _ now, that five months of  _ cognitive behavioral training _ and  _ exposure therapy _ and using a gif to help him reel in his spiraling panic attacks...that had  _ worked.  _ Never mind the line of pill bottles on the counter filled with Sertraline and Prozac and Ambien that stood in silent condemnation of his weakness, of his failure. 

 

But Patrick--oh Patrick made him  _ the angriest.  _ Part of his brain though maybe he wasn’t doing it on purpose, maybe he was  _ trying _ in a totally fucked-up and misguided way to take care of him. But every day since that appointment, since that awful moment when Pete watched himself slip into madness in perfect 64-bit color...it had been growing. 

 

They had argued before the fateful physical therapy appointment, he remembered later. Patrick had been begging  _ again,  _ pleading like the little whiny bitch he was sometimes for him to talk to someone. He had fucking said  _ his _ name, brought all the pain and impotent rage to the surface as Pete’s mind flashed back to Mardoux’s first day on the team, at the irrepressible smile and the reverence in his eyes as he handed Pete a creased photograph.  _ It’s my dad. He was a Green Beret before he lost both his legs in Desert Storm, but he always told me if he had it to do over again he’d be a SEAL.  _ Pete had handed back the photo and clapped him on the shoulder as he had replied:  _ Welcome to the Family.  _

 

All that had flicked through his mind in an instant, eclipsing the look on Patrick’s face--it could have been pity, it could have been bitterness, it could have been compassion. Really, it didn’t matter, they were all worthless emotions, disgusting, a luxury he didn’t want or need. He had left the house with a biting remark that had blanked Patrick’s face, thank God, but had been furious nonetheless as he had gone through PT. He pushed and pushed himself in the hopes that the pain in his knee would erase the terrible blankness of Mardoux’s lifeless eyes as he dropped to the dusty ground.

 

It was  _ Patrick’s  _ fault all that had happened. He wouldn’t have snapped if he hadn’t brought it up, he would be  _ fine _ , he would be  _ normal _ if it wasn’t for Patrick. 

 

The empty shell of hope was starting to look grey and deflated around Patrick’s eyes as he grabbed his keys to leave for the day’s unfortunately-mandatory shrink appointment. As he drove towards Post he mulled over that perhaps he could get them to move his care off-installation, to see a civilian who didn’t have his Commander’s number on speed-dial if he missed an appointment. Someone who would fucking respect the “P” in his SNAP plan--Strengths, Needs, Abilities and Preferences _. Preferences  _ meant that he had things he didn’t want to talk about, goddammit. Maybe a civilian wouldn’t poke and prod at his latent anxiety and the bipolar disorder his dad had struggled with his whole life that  _ might _ be lying dormant in his genetics.  _ Might.  _

 

Collapsing into the cursed, ugly purple polka-dotted chair in Dr. Lederman’s office twenty minutes later, that idea was sounding more and more promising as he watched the doctor open his file that seemed to grow fatter by the week and give Pete a smile that he felt sure was just a cover for  _ asshole _ . 

 

“So Pete, how’s the week been for you?” 

 

“Fine.” That seemed like an appropriate response; all-encompassing, if you asked him. 

 

Dr. Lederman’s smile didn’t falter, showed no signs of frustration like Patrick’s did when he used similar tactics to shut him up. “Mmmmhmmm. Why don’t you tell me more about it?” 

 

“What’s there to tell? I went to work, I couldn’t do my fucking job because of whatever it is you write about me, the meds make me gain weight so I have to spend twice as long at the gym, and the mess was out of ketchup.  _ Again _ .” He folded his arms like a dare. A dare he knew the doctor would rise to and win, regardless.. 

 

“How about the negative thoughts? Any more dissociative episodes or nightmares?”

 

“Nope. Sleep like a fucking baby.” Pete examined the inseam of his multicam with more interest than he’d felt in a while. 

 

“I’m glad to hear you’re sleeping well. What about the other two challenges?” 

 

He  _ hated _ the way the Doc never said words that carried condemnation.  _ Challenges, issues, hurdles _ ...those were the words they used for  _ you’re losing your fucking brain, weakling. “ _ They’re fine.” His mouth felt like it was full of gravel. 

 

Taking his glasses off with practiced care, Dr. Lederman gave him a stern look that suddenly reminded him of his mother. “You know if you don’t talk to me I can’t help you, and if I can’t help you I can’t write anything down other than  _ Patient refuses to cooperate with treatment. _ Is that what you want?” Deflated, Pete slumped back in the chair, murmuring a sullen  _ no _ like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dr. Lederman smiled and put his glasses back on. “Good. Then let’s talk about your thought log.” 

 

With a sigh, Pete pulled the battered sheaf of papers out of his thigh pocket and shuffled to the week’s date.  _ Here we go… _

 

~//~

 

It was dark by the time he got home. After his appointment, he had felt like simultaneously screaming, crying, and puking...so instead he went to the gym, letting the nascent screaming of whatever Pandora decided fit the descriptor “death metal” rattle his brain as he did set after set after set. There was a lot of Marilyn Manson, which suited him just fine, it made him go faster which meant he wouldn’t get fatter...right?

 

Sweaty, exhausted and feeling wrung-out from the inside-out, his hands fumbled trying to get the key into the lock. Finally, it yielded and he stepped inside to the cool, dark serenity of their townhouse and he breathed a sigh.  _ Peace _ . 

 

Throwing his stuff into a pile that he didn’t really care was in the way, he went to the kitchen and fished a beer from the fridge, prying it open with the magnet that was holding up one side of Patrick’s graduation photo from SDSU. Replacing it with a dull thunk, he went into the living room and plopped down on the couch with a sigh as he turned on the TV. Kim Kardashian’s face appeared with an actual gallon of makeup on and he shifted, content as he pulled his phone out and started flicking through twitter. 

 

“Pete?” 

 

Patrick’s voice sounded from the top of the stairs, thick with sleep and Pete sighed. He had hoped to avoid this. “Yeah, it’s me. Go back to bed.” 

 

Instead there was the distinctive  _ stumble-thump _ of Patrick coming downstairs while invariably yawning, pushing up his glasses and sweeping hair from his eyes. He sat down carefully, out of reach at the end of the couch and gave him a watery smile. “I think I’m pretty much over that cold...figured I’d just go to sleep early to knock out the rest of it.”

 

He tried to care, he really did…Patrick’s voice had been scratchy and he’d been hacking up a lung every ten minutes it seemed lately...but he just  _ couldn’t _ really give that much of a shit. It was a cold. So he just grunted a noise that he hoped sounded supportive and took another swig of beer. 

 

“Should...should you be drinking?” 

 

Looking over with a glare that he hoped communicated how  _ very much  _ he wanted Patrick’s  _ goddamned opinion _ , he took another deliberate sip and let out a loud belch. 

 

“After today? Yes, I should. Fuck off.” 

 

Unperturbed, Patrick scratched at his pajama-clad knee and looked so damn compassionate he was suddenly and unhappily reminded of Dr. Lederman’s endless smiles and encouragement. His hand twitched on his knee like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t. Probably a good thing. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

 

“Don’t worry about it.” He finished off the bottle, spinning it in his hands and staring at the label like it held the secrets of the universe. It had been so  _ quiet _ down here before Patrick had to come down. So peaceful. 

 

“I--I want to worry about it, Pete, please. I love you, I worry about you, if you’d just talk to me--”

 

“ _ I’VE HAD ENOUGH FUCKING TALKING!”  _

 

Rage, white-hot and capricious, exploded through him like a wave battering against a sea wall, grey foam thrown high in the air with the force of impact. He was on his feet, suddenly screaming at Patrick’s pajama-clad form, not caring that he was pressing back into the couch cushions, that the line of his body going from sleepy and relaxed to cornered in a moment. 

 

“I get  _ enough  _ fucking talking from the shrinks and the fucking retards who think they can just yakk it all away, all my goddamned Commander and my fucking team and you want to do is talk but  _ Jesus just leave me the fuck alone!”  _

 

He threw his beer bottle towards the kitchen wall, it careened through the air to collide with the plaster and tumble to the ground, exploding into hundreds of razor-tipped shards. Not caring about the way Patrick’s cheeks were suddenly red against his pale skin, he grabbed his phone and stomped upstairs and into the shower, letting the steam melt away all his frustrations. He stared at the way the water spun down the drain for a small eternity, wishing he could just pluck everything out of his brain and let it swirl around and around and out of him. 

 

When he got out and climbed into bed, Patrick’s back was turned and his breathing was regular. Glaring at his spine, Pete decided he didn’t care if he was actually sleeping or not and turned over, away from him to drift into uneasy dreams full of blood seeping through his fingers and dust coating his lungs. 

 

In the morning when he stumbled downstairs, the shards of the beer bottle were in the trash can and there was a croissant on the counter. He took a bite and hummed--anything stuffed with chocolate was the best food in the morning. On the plate was a post it note with the phrase  _ have a great day, I love you!  _ Written in Patrick’s perfect teacher-handwriting. Pete took another bite and put the plate in the sink, proud of himself for remembering to clean up the dishes and depriving Patrick an opportunity to bitch. He crumpled the note and tossed it next to the beer bottle shards. 

 

Petty Officer Pete Wentz didn’t have great days. Not anymore.

 

~//~

It had started innocuously enough--the “fight” they had every year about the Christmas tree. Patrick always wanted a live one--complete with the pine-y smell and the needles that dropped everywhere and the bonfire to burn it when was completely brown and dead from them forgetting it in the backyard. Pete always wanted to just haul his fake one out from the garage--it had lights on it and everything--easy. 

 

“You know, this brisk winter weather  _ definitely _ has me feeling a real tree.” 

 

Pete had snorted at that, giving a significant look at the blue skies and sunshine out the window before rolling his eyes. “Right.” 

 

“No, think about it. We could get one of those Douglas firs, I saw an ad--” 

 

“Dude. You’re stupid, it’s eighty degrees out.  A live tree would be dead in a week. Get the fuck over it.” 

 

“I saw if you put sprite in the water--”

 

The familiar arguments and permutations of Patrick’s hairbrained ideas to keep the tree alive  _ should _ have been comforting,  _ should _ have been funny...but today they weren’t. Today they were just grating and idiotic. Grabbing his plate, he threw it in the trash and shrugged on his blouse, rank settling on his chest like a lead weight. “If you get a real tree, I’m not helping you put it up, ‘cause it’s a dumb idea.” 

 

“Why do you have to be such a dick?” 

 

Looking up from where he was pulling on his left boot, Pete cocked an eyebrow at his husband, who was staring indignantly at him. “Excuse me?” 

 

“You heard me.” Patrick folded his arms over his chest and stared back, and Pete felt the irritation that was always just so close to the surface these days starting to churn. 

 

“I am  _ not _ being a dick, you’re being childish. It’s a fucking tree, if you care so much,  _ you _ fucking do it.” 

 

“Pete.” Patrick was on his feet now, hands braced on the table like he was prepping for a fight. “We’ve  _ always _ put the tree up together, what’s your problem? I thought when--when everything happened that things were going to be  _ better _ , that they’d be back to normal.”

 

“Yeah, well normal might not be in the cards for me so if you don’t like it, you know where the front door is. Leave.” 

 

There was no mistaking the shocked on Patrick’s face then, mingled with hurt and betrayal as his jaw dropped. “What the  _ fuck _ are you talking about? You think that’s what I want? That I don’t want you because--”

 

“I don’t  _ know _ what you’d want, but I know that you  _ can’t _ know what I’m going through. You were just a fucking desk jockey, you wouldn’t even use your goddamn weapon, so you have  _ no _ idea what  _ real _ war is like, you were too busy staying back in your fucking air conditioned coward’s den, doing--”

 

“STOP IT!” Patrick slammed his fist down on the table, the noise just a hair louder than his own roar. “You fucking asshole, I--”

 

“Oh,  _ I’m  _ the asshole now? Funny how that happened as soon as I called  _ you _ on  _ your _ shit.” Distantly, he saw Patrick was trembling, saw the barest reddening of his eyes and the shimmer of tears but he just  _ couldn’t care _ . He couldn’t spare the bandwidth of his own shattered defenses to feel guilty when God knows he was carrying enough guilt himself… _ Stop it.  _ He told himself sternly.  _ Don’t go there. _

 

Jamming his other foot into his boot, he cinched it up and stalked from the room, footfalls heavy on the linoleum that he’d always said he was going to replace but never got around to doing. For a minute, he considered telling Patrick they’d talk about it later, that he didn’t actually mean what he’d said about him being a coward. Turning around, he opened his mouth...and realized Patrick was gone, Cinnamon Toast Crunch getting soggy in its bowl alone on the table. 

 

_ Whatever _ . 

 

~//~

 

Sixty reps into a set of thirty, he was startled out of his workout-fueled zen by his music suddenly cutting off and resolving into the ringtone he reserved for members of his team. Pulling it from his armband, he fumbled with sweaty hands to display who was calling. 

 

_ Chase Mardoux. _

 

His heart seized, the world tilting beneath his feet as vertigo made him feel like he was simultaneously falling forward and backwards all at once. Shaking, he swiped the gently-flickering button to the right and held the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

 

“Pete?” A female voice rang out and he was yanked from a thousand mental sound bytes of phone calls Mardoux had made over the years to him. “Pete, is that you?”

 

“Naomi?” His own voice sounded haggard in his ears, like he had just finished running a marathon. 

 

“Oh, Pete thank goodness. I dropped my phone and the screen shattered so I’m using...this one--” There was a telltale halt to her voice, the barest of a tremor, --until my new one gets here, that is. I’m--I hope I’m not bothering you, you just said to call if I need anything and I got this form from the VA and I don’t...I don’t know how to fill it out.” 

 

Her words stopped and Pete realized that this was  _ where he said something _ . This was when he was the leader that he’d always been, this was when he  _ took care of his people _ . Swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, he coughed and nodded. “Not a problem...I can come over and help, if you’d like?” 

 

Thirty minutes later in semi-clean gym clothes that he had for the next day’s workout, he pulled up to the small apartment just off Post. Naomi opened the door as he was walking up the steps, and her smile was watery and brave. “Thanks for coming, Pete.” 

 

He nodded and pulled her into an awkward side hug. “Anytime.” Following into the house, he felt his throat constrict again as he walked through the hall, framed pictures of Chase and Naomi lining the walls. Wedding photos, travel photos, framed scrapbook pages of his graduation from SEAL school and his promotion...a life in ink and toner. His feet carried him simply via momentum as Chase’s lifeless face superimposed over each frozen moment of life--But then they were in the living room, amongst boxes and bins half-packed. Naomi murmured something about excuse the mess as she shuffled through papers on the coffee table, but he barely heard it. All he could see was the flag displayed next to Chase’s Silver Star and Purple Heart displayed against black velvet. He remembered that flag, remembered the smell of gunpowder as they folded it, he remembered the stone that had dug into his knee as he knelt to present it to her--

 

“Here it is.” Her voice pulled him from his brain desperately wanting to separate from his body, and he shook his head as he tried to focus on the tiny lines of text on the paper she was holding out to him. 

 

_ Application for posthumous DD214 _ . He nodded, taking a deep breath as he desperately tried to not vomit. Pulling the second page from the stack, he took in the tiny boxes with instructions to fill in each and tried to smile. “No worries, I can totally help with this. You got a black pen somewhere?”

 

~//~

 

Steam swirled around him as he stood, contemplating the crumpled washcloth on the shower floor as he desperately tried to reign in his gasps, focusing on the steady in-out, in-out of his breathing as he pulled himself back from the brink of curling up on the floor and screaming. By the time he felt like he wasn’t going to vibrate out of his skin the water was definitely cool on his back and he shut it off as a shudder went through him. 

 

Toweling off, he stared at the reflection in the mirror. His hair was longer than it should have been, but like a lot of things in his life he just hadn’t found the effort to care. There were bags under his eyes and a bit of extra fat around his belly that hadn’t been there before.  _ Fucking drugs _ , he thought with vitriol, vowing to hit the gym even harder tomorrow to get back to fighting shape. Pulling on boxers and a t-shirt, he turned the lights off and slipped into bed next to Patrick’s already-slumbering form.  _ When was the last time we fucked?  _ He thought distantly, but then shook it off as exhaustion hit him like a freight train...

 

... _ and he was back _ .  _ The Afghan sky was inky blackness as far as the eye could see scattered with glittering stars in unfamiliar constellations, and he shook his head at the strangeness of it all. A figure turned, hand going automatically to his sidearm as Pete approached, boots crunching the gravel... _

 

_ He was looking at HIMSELF. He was kitted out in his vest and helmet, rifle slung over his shoulder and hanging in a three-point sling. Other-Pete’s eyes were wide in shock and something that looked like fear but not quite...a second later he realized what the emotion was--guilt. But then he saw himself in the dim reflection of the humvee window Other-Pete was standing next to...and Chase Mardoux was staring back at him, one eye glinting with malice in the dimness, the other obscured by the billowing redness of ripped flesh and brain matter that had dried on what was left of his face. His hair was matted and stuck at odd angles with  gore and bits of what looked like bone shards, and his teeth glinted white against the blood on his lips.  _

 

_ “This is all your fault.” Pete-in-Chase’s mouth moved and the words tumbled from flayed lips, and Pete could  _ feel  _ it. He could  _ feel  _ his own chest constrict with gut-dropping, all-consuming hatred, but there was more there. There was the heartbreak of knowing Naomi would be alone and his mind flashed back to her waving at him with pride in her eyes in her yellow dress as he left for the final time. He felt longing for the baby they were going to try to have when he got home, for the way Naomi’s cheeks would flush when he caught her looking longingly at blue overalls and pink dressed as they walked through Target. He felt the keen agony of knowing the kiss he had pressed to her lips would be his last, that the goodbye letter he had written and put in his file just in case he didn’t come home would be handed to her shaking form… _

 

_ And it was all Pete’s fault.  _

 

_ Somewhere, in a tiny part of his brain that was buried under the guilt and the emotion and the drugged weight of sleep, Pete KNEW that he wasn’t Chase. He was Pete...but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the truth of the emotions. That didn’t mean they weren’t true, every one of them.  _

 

_ Pete-in-Chase stumbled forward. and a fist that wasn’t quite his own slammed into the cheekbone of the person who wore his face. Other-Pete tumbled to the ground and Chase-in-Pete was suddenly on top of him, his hands wrapped around his doppelgänger’s throat. Blood trickled from where a wedding ring that didn’t quite look like his had caught tanned skin, but all he could see was the way he gasped for oxygen. Hands were around his own trying to pry him off, but Pete-in-Chase just leaned in, ignoring the ineffectual blows that were raining on him and pressed down with all his strength. Chase’s mangled face was reflected back at him in the blackness of Other-Pete’s pupils, blood vessels rising red and angry as he started to shake… _

 

_ And miraculously...some of the pain in his heart started to fade. He didn’t know if it was Chase’s guilt at leaving Naomi or if it was his own for letting Chase die...but it didn’t matter. The pain was  _ STOPPING _and God it'd be so long since it didn't hurt_ _...so he pushed harder, putting all his weight behind where his hands were wrapped around the tanned column of Other-Pete’s neck. Pete-in-Chase shifted his grasp, trying to get his thumb on the other’s carotid artery, and a sound worked its way past lips that were opening-and-closing, pink, plush lips the color of raspberries… _

 

“Pete,  _ please… _ ”

 

The distant white light of the searchlights that illuminated the camp dimmed into the comforting yellow glow of the bedside lamp and the stars were no longer glimmering over the distant Afghani mountain ridge…He blinked, and suddenly  _ his face was gone _ , his hands were no longer caked with dust and the wedding ring on his hand was gold, not silver studded with a black onyx stone like Chase’s was…

 

A sound half between a scream and a sob escaped his mouth as he let go of the pale column of Patrick’s neck and fell backwards, tumbling off the bed to collapse in a heap on the ground. Shaking, he grabbed the mattress and hauled himself up and saw Patrick’s eye swelling rapidly, blood on his cheek as he gasped and clutched his chest, chin tucked down like a terrified animal. His eyes were wide in his bloodless face, his cheeks covered in tears as he hacked and coughed. Pete scrambled to his feet, unable to comprehend what had happened, what on earth he had been  _ thinking _ and reached for him, left knee coming to rest on the bed…

 

Patrick twitched backwards, an involuntary firing of muscles as his body dipped into the most basic of instincts-- _ fight or flight _ . A hand came up to cover his neck as the other shot up to ward him off in a protective gesture, one pale forearm held out like a shield as his eyes widened with fear. 

 

 _Fear._ _Guilt_. _Pain._ The gasping, choking noises from his dream filled his ears as he realized with the crystalline clarity that only adrenaline can bring that _he_ had in fact been choking someone. 

 

He’d been choking Patrick.

 

He’d choked his husband in his sleep, his husband who had been guilty of nothing more than sleeping next to him.

 

His husband, his Patrick...was now cowering back from  _ him.  _

 

Pete ran _.     _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's uphill from here, loves!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY FRIENDS! Okay....I know, I know...this is like the most I've updated like ever...I just felt so darn bad for leaving you where I did. Let me re-iterate to you, my lovelies...I know that this has been downhill ride towards a cliff...but I PROMISE, I PINKY SWEAR that this story has a happy ending. A schmoopy, sappy, tooth-rottingly sweet ending. You have that in writing!! So please don't slash my figurative tires, and know I love you and I'm so thankful for each of you! Here's the first *real* step upwards!!

_You choked him_.

 

His bare feet pounded against the concrete, a rhythmic _slap slap slap._

 

 _You choked Patrick_.

 

The night sky was the color of ink, of heartbreak, of the spaces between atoms.

 

 _You choked Patrick_.

 

There was grass under his feet now, inexplicably green in the dim light of the moon and the distant streetlights. He stumbled and fell against the curved stone archway, hand curling around the pocked rock surface and he realized where he was.

 

The cemetery. The cemetery where they had buried Chase Mardoux.

 

He hadn’t been here since that day nearly a year ago--he’d purposely avoided even driving this way because he just _couldn’t._ He just couldn’t see the white stone that overlooked the sea that had his name on it, that was carved in black that he had _lost_.

 

Lurching drunkenly Pete stumbled through the gate and deeper towards the sea, carried along by something he didn’t understand, something he couldn’t have named even if he had words to try. His feet caught and tore grass between his toes as he wove between the stones, moving like someone was pushing him, urging him on and something was screaming that he had to _see,_ had to _know_.

 

And there it was. The grass had grown around it and a fresh bouquet of yellow roses was laid lovingly at the base, with pennies and nickels and a host of quarters stacked on the top surface. He fell to his knees in front of it, the words staring out at him in condemnation.

 

His stomach flipped, bile crawling up his esophagus and he was suddenly running away, feeling the sudden aversion to vomiting on _Chase._ He emptied his stomach under a bench near the path, wiping his mouth on the hem of his shirt before looking back. The headstone seemed to pull him back, his vision narrowing around it and he crawled on his hands and knees, shaking and wretched, back until he could rest his sweat-covered forehead on its cool surface.

 

 _I’m so sorry_. The words seemed trapped behind his lips, whirling around in a maelstrom of guilt and fear and agony so bright, so piercing that he felt like he just wanted to lay down and die from it. _I’m sorry Chase, I’m so sorry I’m here and you’re not. it should have been me, it should have been me under this stone, not you. I’m sorry you couldn’t come home to her, I’m sorry you couldn’t have a baby and a future and it’s all my fault, it’s all because of me I’m so sorry._

 

“I’m sorry.” Falling past his lips like drops of water from a crack, they sounded garbled and gravelly, pulled from the space under his heart where he used to feel happiness. “I’m so sorry.” Just like that...the words wouldn't stop, they felt like they’d _never stop_ and he sobbed them into the ground, sliding down to rest his face next to the roses. Their sweet smell tumbled around his head and he remembered suddenly the roses that he would come home to find on his doorstep before they got married--red, always red--with a note from Patrick.

 

“P-P-Patrick.” He sobbed into the roses, turning to press his face into the blooms, forehead grounded on the cool rock as he cried out his heartbreak, his remorse, his failure. His husband’s face flashed through his mind, eyes bulging from their sockets as _his hands tightened around his neck_ . Like a defective movie, he saw Patrick flinching away from him, he saw the fear in his eyes, he saw his own face choking and dying under his hands and the feeling that he _deserved_ it. He saw the hurt in Patrick’s eyes that morning as he hurled the worst insults at him--that he was a coward--he saw the way Patrick’s shoulders would slump each time he curled away from his touch...he saw it _all._

 

Like a floodgate, it all poured down on him then, poured _out_ of him and onto Chase’s grave, though part of him argued he knew he wouldn’t mind. He saw the hope in Patrick’s eyes as he clasped his hand that first day in Dr. Lederman’s office, saying they’d figure it out _together_. He saw the pain that replaced it bit by bit over the months, the way that he had pulled in and away, the heartbreak in his voice each time he had tried to help and he had selfishly, brutally pushed it away. All that flickered over Patrick _dying_ under his grip, Patrick gasping for air, Patrick flinching away and holding out his arm in _defense._ Because he had to _defend himself_ from _him._ He was a monster, he was broken, he was wretched.

 

Monster. Broken. Wretched.

 

Slowly, he worked his wedding ring off his finger, clutching it to his chest like it was a talisman, a forbidden psalter, a whispered hope that he knew would never come true. He murmured promises to it, wept out his heartbreak and begged Chase for forgiveness as he buried his face in the roses and let the dew settle on him.

 

When the elderly groundskeeper shook his shoulder as the birds started to herald the coming dawn, Pete felt like stone cracked around his body as he pulled his head up to look into the gnarled, wizened old face. Wary concern shone in his eyes as he no doubt remembered one too many drunks he had found in this position, but he asked without judgement if he was alright.

 

Shaking his head _no_ through the kaleidoscope of agony felt like the most honest thing Pete had done in his life.

 

~//~

 

The room wasn’t white and stark--this time it was a soothing beige, and the thin blanket on his bed was sky blue. Pete ran his fingers softly along the edge and just thought. Felt the way the thoughts felt as they drifted around his head--the numb detachment that the drugs they had given him seemed to bring. Everything seemed bright and distinct but encased in glass, each thought no matter how painful he could hold in his hands and they didn’t burn, didn’t sear like normal. He could stare at Chase’s dead face and _feel_ the dagger sliding into his heart...but somehow his breath still wooshed in and out, in and out. His hands shook when he thought of Patrick’s mouth opening and closing as he begged silently for his life, but that just felt...he didn’t know. It was simply _there_.

 

Maybe the fact that he had told the cop standing at the door of the hospital everything said it all. He had grabbed at him as he was wheeled in, demanded, drugged and in a stupor that he needed to _confess_. He had _done it_ and it was _all his fault_. The cop had followed them in--kind blue eyes that reminded him so much of Patrick he had felt tears burning down his cheeks and he had told him. He had done it-- _I was dreaming and I fucking choked Patrick in his sleep I fucking choked him like a fucking monster_ _and now he’s afraid of me and it’s all my fault and he should be afraid I’m a fucking demon and I don’t deserve him._ He had pressed his wedding ring into the cop’s hands like it was his penance, like it was the coin paid to carry his soul across the river Styx to the hell he deserved.

 

The cop had smiled at him inexplicably just before he drifted into the haze of whatever cocktail they had poured into his veins, hand closing over the ring and he had murmured _Alright, young man. What did you say your husband’s name was?_ He felt like he shouldn’t get to say it, he didn’t fucking deserve to say his name but it slipped from his lips anyways in the vain hope that maybe this kindly cop with the white mustache would tell Patrick he was sorry.

 

 _Patrick Stump_ . He whispered and then he was gone...lost in a sea of half-remembered regret and confusing fragments of fact. And now...he was in this room--beige light calm and soothing as he ran his fingers along the ridge of the blanket’s edge and just waited. Waited, because what else did he have but time? His marriage was over, he had _lost_ everything, and now he knew with crushing certainty his mind was inexcusably cracked. Normal was gone forever.

 

He looked up at the _beep-clunk_ of the door opening and saw the cop walking in, nodding to someone he couldn't see before letting the door shut behind him.

 

“Hello there. You’re looking more like a human now, aren’t you?” Pete only nodded, wondering why this cop-- _Whittaker_ from his nametag--was being kind to him. He was a _murderer,_ after all. But instead, he just sat down and gave him what could only be described as a Grandpa smile. “Do you remember what you said to me before they knocked you out?” Pete nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak and that seemed to make something click in the officer’s head. “Actually, I’ve got a better idea--I’ll tell _you_ what I saw first, alright?.” Settling back, he gave Pete a measured look. “You were babbling something that I didn’t quite catch because my hearing isn’t what it used to be...but it _sounded_ like you said you choked someone in your sleep.” Pete nodded silently and the officer continued. “But what I _did_ hear for sure was you saying you were sorry over and over, even once they’d drugged you...and you told me your husband’s name. So using my amazing skills, I found your husband and you know what he was doing?”

 

He shook his head, not even sure he wanted to imagine it but doing so anyways. It was probably Patrick taking a baseball bat to his truck, lighting all his uniforms on fire, or smashing his favorite season of _Supernatural_. All of which he knew he deserved. Officer Whittaker smiled at him in a way that said he knew something.

 

“Well, he had been crying, that’s for certain. I asked him if he was married, and it’s the funniest thing. I could _see_ him shutting down a bit, putting distance there but he wasn’t unkind. He just said yes but that you were going through a rough spot. But when I explained to him what had happened--we didn’t even know your name at this point, mind you--you should have seen his face. It was like someone flipped a light switch when I told him where you were--that you’d checked yourself in on your own.” He gave Pete a long look. “Now, why do you think he’d be surprised by that?”

 

Somewhere, from the deepest part of him that didn’t feel the drugs, that the ice in his bloodstream hadn’t frozen yet...Pete felt something sharp stab into him. “He’d given up.” He looked at Officer Whittaker. “I was trying to get help but I wasn’t...I thought I didn’t need it.”

 

“Do you think you do now?”

 

He considered the fold in the blanket. “I was so stupid.” Sniffing miserably, he decided it really didn’t matter if he cried in front of this cop--what did he have to prove, anymore? “I really did need it and I just...didn’t see how bad I was. But it’s too late. I’ve--I lost him already.” His eyes flicked up to meet the kind blue ones considering him and he looked back down, the gaze too much to bear. “Did you give him my ring?”

 

The door buzzed again and Pete didn’t look up, it was probably just another nurse to give him drugs...the cop was the only one he’d been waiting to see after all. Maybe he’d take pity on him and tell him how long he’d be going to jail for...and maybe he’d tell him how to get the judge to give him the life sentence he deserved.

 

“He did.”

 

Faster than he thought he could have moved, Pete’s head shot up at the voice--rough and gravelly, husky like he had just woken up, like he was getting over a cold. Patrick was standing there in jeans and a jacket sweater, a plaid scarf wrapped around his neck with a blank look in his eyes.

 

Officer Whittaker looked between them both and smiled a smile that Pete didn’t understand. “Now, I told Patrick here that if you had assaulted him, he was within his rights to press charges against you and that any judge would give him a restraining order, no problem. But he didn’t want that, and I might be an old retired Marine, but I’ve seen boys like you too many times to count. So unless Patrick tells me different, I’m going to just take what you said as drugged ramblings and forget it.” He fixed Pete with a hard stare. “But that’s only if you get help, and I mean _really_ get the help you need. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Pete just nodded, staring at Patrick’s pale face, the way his left cheekbone had a bright bruise blooming over it with a dried line of blood to mark where his ring had caught his skin. At the way he seemed smaller, pulled tight and wary...but he was _here_. That meant something, didn’t it?

 

Standing, the officer moved towards the door. “Now, Patrick I’m going to go get some coffee and wait for you, like we talked about. Holler if you need me, alright?” Stiffly Patrick nodded, giving him a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes...and then it was just them.  

 

The room was silent, the kind that Pete knew would normally make him start having a panic attack or pacing...but the drugs that still floated in his system meant he just felt hollow, like a shell that didn’t deserved to be in the same room as his husband, to breathe the same air. Patrick just stared at him with an unintelligible expression on his face for a long moment before moving to the single chair and sitting cautiously, like he was afraid the chair would evaporate when his weight touched it. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth gold of Pete’s ring as he stared...it made him feel like a circus animal in a cage, but he supposed he really was.

 

“Did you really come here on your own?” The words came out quietly, without the accusations that Pete knew he so richly deserved, but rather like he was genuinely surprised. He didn’t know what to say--a thousand things were rolling around his head to say-- _I’m sorry_ and _leave before I hurt you again_ and _you’re an idiot, send me to fucking jail_ and _I love you please don’t leave me_ and _I’m broken and I’m afraid I’m never going to be okay again_ and _I’m disgusting how can you even stand to be here..._ but he had realized during his time in the cemetery he’d done way too much talking in the last six months, and most of it had been poisonous vitriol....so instead he just nodded and whispered _yes_.

 

Silence fell again and Pete realized it was still horrible...but it was much better when it didn’t have his noxious words floating between them. Maybe there _were_ things worse than silence.

 

“Why did you give him this?” Patrick nodded his head minutely towards the band of gold in his hand. “Are you...you leaving me?”

 

He shook his head immediately but then his brain caught up and he stopped, a sob he couldn’t care about ripping past his lips. “No, I-- _you_ should leave _me._ I--” He choked around the words, they seemed to catch in his throat and tasted like bitter failure. “I _hurt you_. I choked you in my sleep like a fucking monster and I don’t know why you’re even in the same room as me but I just…” He gripped the blanket in his hands, clenching until his knuckles whitened. “I don’t deserve--you should _let_ the cop lock me up and throw away the key, you should fucking charge me with everything, I deserve it and I just hope you know _how sorry_ I am but I know...” Tears rolled down his cheeks and he batted them away uselessly as new ones replaced them tenfold. “I know I don’t deserve to wear that anymore.”

 

Patrick looked at him with wide eyes that gave nothing away, eyes he had seen blink open at him every morning for the last four years, eyes that twinkled with laughter and flashed with anger and that he loved more than anything in the world. _Eyes he almost put the light out of forever_. He squeezed his own eyes shut and sank down to the bed and curled into a ball, pulling the blanket up over him like a child and let himself cry.

 

Something settled on his shoulder and he ignored it--sure that it was just his imagination. But then it was squeezing, soothing--and his head darted up in shock. Patrick jerked back, eyes widening involuntarily in fear as he jerked away and and his hand came up just a bit to cover himself...and Pete’s head sank down again at that, at the way _his husband_ flinched away from him, knowing with the awful weight of total certainty that he absolutely deserved that, and he cried. A gentle hand carded through his hair and he did nothing--telling himself it was just a dream and he should savor it while it lasted, because there was no way Patrick would touch him…

 

“Shhh…” Patrick soothed him and he slowly poked his head up, tiny movements that he hoped wouldn’t startle him away. He met a watery blue gaze filled with fear and uncertainty...but he thought he saw love there as Patrick pulled his hand back. He hoped he saw love. “I--I can’t believe you checked yourself in here. You know they’re going to keep you for like...almost a week, right?”

 

He shrugged as he nodded. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll--I’m _broken,_ ‘Trick. If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. I’ll fucking do _anything_.”

 

Patrick seemed to consider that, eyes dropping down to the floor for a long moment before coming back to meet his. “Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why do that? What do you want at the end?” Patrick looked at him like he had given him the answer to the test, he just had to find it, but he was too tired, to heartsick, too exhausted to uncover it...so he settled for the unvarnished, ugly truth.

 

“Maybe if I do, someday...maybe someday you’d let me see you again.” There was no mistaking the heartbreak in Patrick’s eyes but Pete felt it echoed in his own chest, the way his heart cracked along the fissures at admitting it. Admitting he had lost the only thing that had made his life worth the struggle, that had made him fight through every deployment to make it him.

 

“Oh Pete…” Patrick stood, hands reaching out for him and he scooted away, skittering backwards with his hands out like he was warding off evil.

 

“No, don’t--I’ll hurt you, please don’t I--”

 

“ _No_ .” Patrick threw right back, taking his outstretched left hand and slipped the band back on his fourth finger, a briskly efficient motion before moving to sit back in the chair, out of reach. He held his hand to his chest, like the skin had burned where he had touched Pete’s...but he wasn’t running. Pete just stared between his finger and Patrick; his mouth was hanging open and he just didn’t care. Clearing his throat, Patrick adjusted the scarf around his neck and Pete saw a glimpse of vivid bruises--angry purples and sickly reds--and he felt a wave of nausea overtake him that he had to curl up unconsciously for a moment before he started breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to calm his pounding pulse. Patrick just sat silently until he let out a small sigh. “I know you didn’t know what you were doing, and I know that you--” He pursed his lips as his brow furrowed in concern. “--I can’t promise it’s not going to be hard for me to, for _us_ to figure it out but…” He held his hand out, leaning forward and the scarf gaped down, bruises visible like an accusation, like a punch to the gut, like a sentence. “If you’re serious enough to check yourself in here, and you really mean it…” He gave Pete the smallest smile, a tenuous tucking up of the corners of his mouth that held so much more grace than Pete knew he deserved. “...I’ll be here.”

 

Slowly, like he was edging his hand into a hornet’s nest, Pete stretched out and curled his hand around the tips of Patrick’s fingers and just sobbed _I’m sorry_ over and over and over...because he knew that was a galaxy more than he ever deserved.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of Getting Well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! It's been a hell of a week for me...went to the FOB concert (holy amazing!), traveling for work, broke my phone and lost about three month's worth of pictures including the concert...so yeah. I wanted to write this chapter because it suited my mood. I'm sorry if the formatting is a bit weird...I'm posting from my iPad, which is always weird. But I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you so much for reading!!!

 

 

The first few days after he woke up were a bit of a blur...a solid day where he apparently did nothing but sleep as they found that he did not do well on Restoril, and another where the day was just a hazy jumble of people-shapes and the interesting way the pattern on his room curtain seemed to move as they gave him a new anti-psychotic with a name he couldn't remember. He thought Patrick came to see him during visiting hours, but couldn’t be sure.

The third day, though...they seemed to have hit on a cocktail that worked, that didn't make him feel like vomiting or curling up and sleeping forever. So mid-morning off he went to CPT, and as he walked in his weird-sock-covered feet, he mused _it’s just a letter off from CBT, how different can it be?_

Oh how wrong he was. Jenna, his therapist, was a young woman who looked like she should be a preschool teacher or a barista...but she was ruthless in the kindest way he could imagine. She told him that _Cognitive Processing Therapy_ involved re-learning ways to look at trauma, to examine it critically and use facts to help him cope. He had nodded when she said it would be hard because hey...nothing in his shit life wasn’t hard anymore. But then she launched straight into a probing, blistering inquisition into what had happened, bringing all his fears to the surface as he tried to explain between shaking hands and panic clawing at his throat and he realized there was a new threshold for hard. Just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore...she handed him stress balls to squeeze, one in each hand and then helped him look at Chase’s death from a different perspective. She asked questions and waited in expectant, non-judgemental silence for him to answer fully, not letting him move on until he had stared the truth in the face. At the end of ninety minutes he was exhausted, fingers stiff from gripping the ridiculously-cheerful stress balls and sweating but feeling unexpectedly...empty. Not empty-hollow or numb but...drained in the best way. Like some of the agony had bled out leaving just pure silence in its wake.

He had been walked back to his room and promptly fell asleep, taking a long nap before being woken up for his medication. For a while he simply stared at the ceiling, feeling the panic surging back over him, the darkness of self-recrimination and loathing gurgling up around his heart. Briefly he contemplated calling his nurse and asking for a Prozac...but then his eyes landed on the notebook. Calling it a notebook was generous in the extreme--it was just a few pieces of paper folded in half and stapled...but Jenna had given it to him with the admonition to write down his thoughts. She had said to just _let it out, don’t worry about grammar or if it makes sense...just write down what’s in your head_. He wasn’t sure if it would really help--he had always just told Dr. Lederman he was journaling even though he really wasn’t; the idea had reminded him strongly of middle-school girls tittering over secrets written in heart-shaped notebooks emblazoned with neon Lisa Frank animals. But hey, if Jenna said to do it, he would, chuckling darkly as he reached for the papers--it was like he was suddenly the “Yes Man” from that Jim Carey movie...if a shrink told him to do it, goddamnit he’d do it if it would help him get his life back. Get Patrick back.

So with a half-broken pen that one of the nurses had left on his bedside table, he started scrawling out thoughts, the angry words that seemed to swirl endlessly in his head and claw at his brain. He wrote about why he felt guilty--trying to describe how it felt, the shape and size of it. The pen _scratch, scratch, scratched_ across the paper and he turned the page, then another, then another. It flowed out of him and in a strange way it made him feel just a bit lighter. Like it was all still there in his head, but somehow less urgent, less demanding.

“Pete?” His head shot up to see Patrick standing at the foot of his bed holding a plastic shopping bag and looking at him strangely. “What are you doing?” He glanced down, realizing he must have looked a bit like a cave troll, hunched over his paper and scribbling madly.

“Umm...writing? Journaling, I guess. My therapist--Jenna--she told me to.”

Sitting down on the chair bolted to the side of the room, Patrick gave him a surprised look but just nodded. He unwound the handles of the bag from where they had been wrapped around it’s contents and pulled out a pair of his lounge pants and one of Patrick’s own band shirts--some punk outfit that had probably only played a handful of basement shows. “They said I could bring you some clothes, if you wanted?” He took one of his fuzzy cardigans from the bag. “I was going to bring you a hoodie in case you were cold, but nothing could have strings in case…” he trailed off, eyes flicking up to Pete’s and then back to the pile of clothes. “...anyways, I didn’t want to ruin one of yours by pulling the string out so I just brought you this, if that’s okay.”

“Thank you.” Pete reached for the clothes, careful that their hands didn’t touch as he took the bundle, pressing his face into it for a moment. It smelled like _home_ and _safety_ and words that seemed far away but that he hadn’t realized he was aching to feel again. “I--do you mind if I change now? These gowns are horrible.”

Nodding, Patrick gave him a tiny smile. “Yeah, I’m going to grab something to drink. Do you want anything?” He shook his head with a murmured thanks, though and Patrick left, taking the bag he noted. _Can’t leave anything for the crazy guy to hang himself with,_ his brain taunted him and he pushed it sternly away. _He brought me clothes--his OWN clothes, that was really fucking nice_. Slipping out of bed, he shucked off the gown and pulled the pile on, reveling in the softness of cotton that had been washed more times than he could count. He had just settled back into the bed when Patrick came back, a paper cup filled with something warm cupped in his hands. He smiled another tiny smile as he sat down, but then it was gone as the silence crept around them both.

“Umm...how are you feeling?” He tugged at the scarf, pulling it higher around his neck, and Pete felt shame bubble in his gut as he caught sight of the bruises, still green and purple.

“Okay. I--the last couple days I don't really remember, but I feel better today.” Patrick nodded.

“Yeah, you were pretty out of it.”

Examining his fingers, Pete bit his lip and cast about for something to say, hating that he felt this awkward talking to his own husband. “How's, umm, work been?”

“I took some time off.” Patrick took a long drink from his cup, eyes flicking up to Pete’s. “I--couldn't really go in, like this, not around the kids.” He waved non-committally at his neck, and Pete felt the horror of it like a ton of bricks crashing down on him. Of course Patrick couldn’t go teach a room full of pre-K kids with rowdy, grabbing hands and endless questions when his neck was painted an angry watercolor of hatred. He was such a fucking moron.

“I’m--” He swallowed thickly, suddenly wishing for something to drink, something to cradle in his hands. “I’m so sorry.” Patrick just shrugged, taking another sip and making his glasses fog up. Silence stretched again and Pete felt like curling up under his blankets and dying, like ripping his idiotic notebook full of pathetic thoughts to shreds, like screaming until his throat was raw and bloodied. But then Patrick made a small huffing sound and shifted, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“I, umm.” He tapped it a few times before holding it out to Pete. “I saw this thing on Facebook..it’s called Bat Dad? It cracked me up and it made me think of you.” Pete tapped the triangular play button, holding the phone so Patrick could see it too. The video played and they both chuckled, laughing as the father pretended to be Batman to his family and for the three minutes and forty-two seconds it lasted, Pete felt something close to _normal_.

~//~

Two days later was EMDR, or Eye-Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It was...interesting, he decided. Definitely not as gut-shattering as CPT, but hard in a different way. The guy--Jason--had him close his eyes and think of a single negative memory as he held buzzers in each hand that would vibrate first one, then the other, back and forth and back and forth. He guided Pete through his feelings, his emotions and how to calm himself in the moment until he reached what he called a cool calm. As he shook his hands out afterwards, still feeling the residual tingling, he shrugged when Jason asked how he felt...the only word that felt accurate was _weird_.

But he went back to his room and filled up the remaining three pages of his “journal” with all his feelings and thoughts. Then he had been bundled out to art therapy, and while he had scoffed at the idea months ago when Dr. Lederman had proposed it, he wasn’t laughing now. As he sat down in the hard plastic chair and listened to the frazzle-haired woman who was guiding the session, he realized if it took fucking painting and yoga and painting his nails pink to get better...he’d fucking do it. So he tried…and while his artwork was a chaotic mass of blacks, reds, greys and tan that he wasn’t quite sure deserved to be called art...it made him feel a tiny bit better. Somehow it felt like he was looking at the way his head and heart shattered in Afghanistan, how it hurt every time he felt Patrick slip from his grasp as he left for yet another deployment. It was like...he somehow felt like if he squinted just right, it made sense. The muddy tans and greys described the numbness he felt as they rumbled through the Afghan countryside, coupled with the bright terror of combat and Chase’s death in gaudy reds. All eclipsed by black that seemed to cut through it all like a knife, blackness that bled into everything it touched and divided the painting up like it had shattered his life. He added a watery light green under a few black swaths...green like the bruises on Patrick’s neck, and it made his chest constrict as stabbing guilt thrummed through him...but it somehow seemed right. It was like he was being honest in a confession that only he understood.

He was scribbling on the back of a prescription print-out that his nurse had given him to journal on when Patrick slipped in for the evening...never missing visiting hours. He was more faithful that Pete knew he deserved.

“Hey.” His eyes fell on the painting that Pete had propped on the chair out of no other good place to put it that wasn’t the floor, and he cocked his head. “What’s that?”

Pete felt a ghost of his old humor spark to life, an ember glowing in cold coals. “An attempt to be the next Jackson Pollock?” He smiled, half out of self-conscious shame at his odd attempt at artwork and half because it felt oddly personal to have just sitting there. Patrick’s eyes were curious, intrigued as they met after he settled the painting on the side table, and he felt the sudden need to explain. “I had Art Therapy after EMDR today and...yeah. The woman said I won the award for Most Impressionistic and I think that was a nice way to say it’s shit.”

“Don’t say that.” Patrick admonished gently, eyes lingering on the chaotic blend of colors, but they were a bit more open, a bit more relaxed as he met Pete’s gaze. He reached down into the paper bag he had brought and held out a lime green-wrapped square. “I...I wanted to get you a little pick me up, so don’t tell the doctors ‘cause I think I’m not supposed to bring you food.” Pete was already halfway done devouring the Green Tea Kit-Kat before he realized he should probably savor it...and God was his favorite flavor worth savoring.

“ _Thankyouthankyouohmygoshhhh_.” He held a piece out. “Do you want some?” Patrick just laughed gently and shook his head.

“No thanks, all for you.” He looked down at his hands, then at the scribbled stack of papers and his face took on a hopeful cast, one hand coming up to adjust the scarf before dipping into the bag again. “I...I’m really glad you’re writing? Like, it makes me really happy to see you getting your thoughts out, so I wanted you to have something a bit better to keep them in than that.” He pulled out a leather-bound book and a few new pens, holding them out like a peace offering.

Pete took them reverently, caressing the leather and clicking the pens. He opened to the first page and saw, in perfect teacher’s handwriting, _To Pete, with Love from Patrick_ in the upper right corner. He couldn't help the way his hand moved of it’s own accord to touch the words reverently, almost like he was afraid they would disappear. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he looked up to meet Patrick’s and saw the way his mouth was tucked up at the corner in the smile he knew--the smile that meant _I know what you’re trying to say_.

The door buzzed open and Pete barely saw Patrick reach out to sweep the Kit-Kat into the bag as he watched his Commander and First Sergeant walk through. The room seemed to get chillier despite the wide smiles on their faces.

“Petty Officer Wentz! Good to see you up and looking good!” The corners of Captain Brandt’s eyes crinkled as he reached out and grasped the footboard of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Good, sir.” Pete couldn't help but look over at Patrick, noting the way he tugged his scarf up higher. “I didn’t realize you were going to come by, I’m sorry I--”

“Oh nonsense son.” The First Sergeant shook his head, and Pete tried to remember when he’d ever actually seen the guy outside of morning PT. “Your health is our first concern, not ridiculous formalities. We’re just happy to see you awake and looking so hearty.” He looked at Patrick and grinned widely. “And you? Holding up okay? Anything you need, just let us know.” Pete noticed that he didn’t actually give Patrick time to actually say if he _did_ need something. “So, they say how much longer you’d be in here?”

“Umm...Thursday, I think they said?” Pete scratched the back of his neck irritably, a question burrowing into the back of his head and wriggling uncomfortably.

“Oh, just two more days? Excelllent!” Captain Brandt boomed out, and Pete shook his head.

“No, _next_ Thursday.”

“Ah...I see…” The Captain’s mustache seemed to definitely droop at that and Pete decided he didn’t care, he needed to ask the question.

“What does this mean for me, being in here? Are you going to Med Board me out?”

“Well, Dr. Lederman certainly thinks that’s what will be recommended, due to--” Captain Brandt started, but was quickly cut off by the First Seargant, a wide smile on his face that seemed the opposite of convincing.

“--Let’s not worry about that now, alright Petty Officer Wentz? You just concentrate on getting back to fighting shape, alright?” He gave the commander a look and they nodded in sync, saying their goodbyes and bundling out of the room quickly in a flurry of camouflage and half-truths. Pete couldn’t take his eyes from the door, the red light at the lock panel that blinked as the words spun through his head as he gripped the journal tightly, breathing through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Are you alright?” Patrick’s voice was soft, full of wary concern, and Pete just nodded.

“Yeah, just give me a second.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, remembering what Jenna had said-- _think it through logically. What things CAN you control, focus on those and let go of the ones that you can’t. They aren’t your problem to worry about_. He pulled in a breath through his nose and held it for a count of three as he thought-- _Can’t do anything about the future. I’ll either be med boarded out or I won’t. Not mine to worry about._ He let the breath out slowly, trying to extend his exhale as long as possible. _How I respond here might shape their decision, so keep calm and do what you need to do here. That you CAN do_. He took another deep breath, holding it at the apex. _The most important thing is being well, and you can be well, you’re doing it right now._ He breathed out and felt the tension leave his hands as he let go of the book, his vision clear when he opened his eyes and none of the gut-dropping nausea in his stomach. He saw Patrick was watching him strangely, expression full of what he thought was hope and disbelief. “I’m okay now, sorry about that…I...yeah.”

“No, that was--” Patrick smiled and pulled the last of the Twix bar from the bag, holding it out. “Here, you deserve this.”

Visiting hours ended ten minutes later and Pete fell asleep curled around the journal, fingers resting on the writing on the inner cover, the surprised smile on Patrick’s face the positive thought he fixed in his mind as he drifted off.

~//~

Friday’s visiting hours were in the middle of the day and Pete was shaking in his bed, fighting off a panic attack when Patrick walked in behind the nurse. Neither of them said anything as he swallowed down the Xanax in the little plastic cup and then curled up in a ball, feeling like a failure and trying to remember what Jenna had said.

“Are you okay?” Patrick asked as he sat down and Pete shook his head.

“Not really.” The words burned in his throat but he knew they were the truth, and Patrick deserved the truth. “I--my session with Jenna was rough and I tried to journal but my hands were shaking too much and...I just can’t keep it down.” He gave Patrick a bleary smile that was filled with self-loathing. “I feel like a failure for needing the drugs, but I know that’s not…Jenna says _medication is a tool, not a crutch_.” He tucked his head between his hands and tapped his fingers against his temple, counting the beats _one two three four, one two three four…_

But then a warm hand covered his and he couldn't help but jerk up in surprise--Patrick hadn’t touched him since...But no, Patrick was smiling softly, hands bracketing his tenderly, like an embrace as he squeezed gently. “I’m really proud of you.” He whispered, and Pete couldn't help but feel like he had done something right, like he had picked the winning lotto numbers when he looked into Patrick’s eyes and saw pride there, love...faith in him.

“Thanks.” He whispered, calm starting to settle over his bones like a weighted blanket and he sighed. Turning his hand carefully, he laced their fingers together and mumbled as the room tilted a bit. “I’m...I’m going to try to rest. You don’t have to stay, I--”

“Shhh.” Patrick squeezed and brought his hand up to rub soothing patterns on the skin on the back of his wrist. “I’ll stay for a while, I want to.” He smiled and Pete felt it in his bones, in the cracks and cockles of his heart. “You just rest...you’re okay, alright? You’re doing so awesome.”

Pete nodded, trying to say something past his suddenly-wooden tongue, but couldn’t quite form the words. So he just squeezed Patrick’s hand and hoped he understood as he drifted into the grey-lit haze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to make a short disclaimer here...nobody has brought it up, but I want to address it nonetheless. The type of "assault" Patrick suffered in Pete's hands is shockingly common in military members sadly, and almost no support networks exist for either the spouse or the service member to get help in an environment where charges wouldn't be filed. I'm not in any way advocating that spousal abuse be swept under the rug--never! But I think in this scenario...there's so much grey area, so much room for confusion, both legal and personal. Obviously if someone had an experience like Pete's and it WASN'T a huge red flashing light that they needed help...then maybe it becomes more black and white. But in Pete's case, I tried to approach it like *this* was the catalyst that made him realize he REALLY needs to get better, that makes him dedicate 100% of his effort to getting there. To me...that's the end result everyone would want from this scenario, not any sort of charges or record. I hope that makes sense...if you disagree and want to talk about it, please hit me up on tumblr at a-smile-like-that <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends!!! I'm back...this chapter is a bit shorter? But I hope you'll enjoy it, as it builds into the next one which is shaping up to be LONG. Thank you so much for reading and for the love!!!!

  
It’s so weird to be, well... _not in there_. He opened the car door and slid in to see Patrick giving him a cautious smile from the driver’s seat, eyes watchful as he buckled his seatbelt and sets the bag of medications, his journal, and other detritus in his lap. Soft jazz was playing on the radio and he took a deep breath, telling himself to calm down. _You can do this. They wouldn't have let you out otherwise._ The pills jostled with a sound like the world’s most uninspiring maracas and he tapped his finger against them, realizing this was it. This was the first good decision he could make, the first step on a road that he hoped would take him back to all the things he so desperately wanted.

“Umm...could we maybe stop at Long’s or Walgreens or something? I need one of those pill containers so that I can make sure I take everything right.” Patrick’s eyes flicked over to him for a split second, widening with surprise but he just nodded, the small smile back on his lips. They drove in silence that wasn’t the greatest, but it also wasn’t the worst he realized. It was full of wariness, of concern for the future and fears from the past...and both of them felt it keenly, but both of them wanted to push forward anyways. That was what counted.

Parking in front of Walgreens, Patrick looked at him and chuckled. “Umm, what type do you want me to get? I’ll go in if you want, you--” He smiled and Pete felt like just maybe that smile was real. “--You kinda look like a hobo.”

Something fluttered under his heart--it was like a coal was being blown to life, like he was squinting at their old marriage through a coating of ice. He grinned at his outfit, then back up to Patrick. “What, batman pants and John Coltrane don’t go together?” He pulled the sleeves of the brown cardigan down over his hands and folded his arms theatrically. “I think you’re making a snap judgement, but I’ll let it go.” Patrick laughed and reached out, squeezing his hand for a moment, a brief gesture of _we got this, we can be us again, it just might be okay_ and Pete felt it in his heart.

“I’ll get a couple types and we’ll figure out which one works best and I’ll bring the rest back, okay?” Pete nodded and murmured _thanks_ as Patrick got out of the car. He watched him walk into the store, scarf still wrapped around his neck and he decided once this was all over, once he was well again, he was going to throw away every scarf Patrick owned. He _hated_ scarves.

Shrugging as his mind started to spiral down, he snapped his fingers and started to fiddle with the radio to keep himself on the upturn. He found the top 40 station--unsurprisingly it wasn’t one of Patrick’s presets--and he hummed along as he listened to some sort of techno-filled anthem with a really cool beat. Ten minutes later, Patrick was back and settling back into his seat, handing Pete the bag as he reversed out of the spot and resumed the drive home. He looked over at him as he drove, clearing his throat and adjusting his cap. “Umm...I’m really glad you...wanted those? Like, that’s really awesome you’re, you know...” He shook his head, a chagrined look on his face. “God that came out totally ridiculous, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Pete looked at the four types of pill boxes Patrick had gotten and smiled. “I...I know what you mean. I really wasn’t giving it a hundred percent before...but I am now, I promise.”

Patrick’s smile was warm, the edges tigned with hesitation but Pete knew he deserved--but he also knew that he deserved so much worse.

~//~

He couldn’t help but pause just outside the doorway. Patrick had already gone through and was halfway through kicking off his shoes as he hovered uncertainly in front of the entrance. His mind cast backward to the last time he’d crossed that threshold the other way, out of his mind with fear and panic running on bare feet as though he could leave the agony behind if he just moved fast enough. Blue eyes met his as Patrick noticed his hesitation and he gave Pete a small reassuring smile, like an invitation to try again.

With a deep breath Pete moved inside and shut the door behind them, taking a deep breath that was filled with the familiar scent of _home_. He kicked off his shoes and nudged them next to Patrick’s, before pulling off the sweater and hanging it on the peg.

Patrick’s head was buried in the fridge when Pete entered the kitchen, setting the bag of medications and pill boxes down on the counter. “Hey, so are you hungry? There’s leftover--” He stood, arms full of takeout boxes and froze as Pete gasped, scuttling backwards with wide eyes riveted to his neck. The scarf was in a pile on the counter and the bruises--Pete barely remembered making them, yet what he did recall was branded in his memory like fire. The worst of the red he had glimpsed previously had faded now to purple, ringed with sickly green and yellow in the shape of his fingers, great splotches where blood vessels had burst under the awful strain of _Patrick trying to breathe_. Quickly, Patrick put the boxes of food on the counter and held his hands up, like he was the one they should all be afraid of...it made Pete want to laugh if he wasn’t already trying not to cry. His mouth moved as apologies that felt so meaningless swirled through his brain alongside promises he was terrified to make and a jumbled mass of _no!_ thundered through him and he was backing away, running again. But the kitchen wall stopped him short and he just sunk to the ground, the shaking in his limbs making standing seem like something as undoable as hiking Everest. He pressed his fists to his eyes, like he could drown out the bruises and the way his hands tingled with a hazy ghost of sensation as he _remembered_ making them. All the things Jenna had told him blew through his mind like shattered mirrors in a tornado, sparkling as they tumbled and sliced. He couldn’t grab them, he couldn’t remember how to calm down, he tried to take deep breaths but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate, insisting that the only way he could breathe was to take huge gasping bursts like _Patrick had when he fucking choked him..._

“Hey...hey, it’s okay.” Patrick’s voice cut through the hurricane in his mind, gentle but firm hands pulling his fists from his face and tipping his head back. One settled on his chest, setting a rhythm that was a sharp counterpoint to his own breaths, _push release, push release, push release_ as a gentle hand soothed across his jaw. “Breathe, come on, you can do it. Deep breaths, follow me now, come on.” Quiet authority suffused his tone, and Pete found himself opening his eyes and letting go of everything but the _push release, push release._ “There you go...good...good job.” Patrick soothed, pulling his hand away as he sat back heavily but just setting it on Pete’s knee. Sniffing, realizing tears were staining his cheeks, he met Patrick’s concerned gaze and shook his head in contrition..

“I…” His eyes dropped to his neck and he closed them again, the blooming colors accusing him like a red cloth waved in front of a charging bull. _“I’m so sorry.”_

Patrick didn’t dismiss it, didn’t push the apology aside like it was undeserved...and somehow that made him feel better even it made him feel like shit, but just...in a way that seemed _right_. He shook his head. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Do...do they hurt?” He couldn’t help but ask, morbidly terrified of the answer but needing to know, needing to feel how deep the agony went because he _deserved_ it.

But Patrick just shook his head with a ghost of a smile. “No, not anymore. They’re just...they’ll heal. Just like us.” His smile was small but warm, like an ember that was determined to smolder on despite the wind whistling around it. Reaching out he took Pete’s hand and squeezed gently, calmly. “Why don’t you go take a shower, okay? I’ll warm you up a plate and you can just pick whatever you want.”

Nodding, Pete stood and backed away. “Thank you.” He whispered before nearly running from the kitchen, to the safety of the guest bathroom because under no circumstances did he want to go in their bedroom. Patrick seemed to pick up on that, because he found clothes in a pile on the counter when he turned the water off...he must have missed the sound of the door opening and closing as he had sat on the floor of the tub and cried. The _realness_ of it all, the gruesome colors standing out against the creamy white of Patrick’s neck...he sobbed and sobbed out his shame and heartbreak that he had done that. But he felt the same emptiness he had felt after the first session with Jenna when he climbed from the tub...not the bad kind of empty, but rather the kind that made him feel like the sadness had bled away, just for a while. Dressing after he dried off, he considered himself in the swath of mirror he wiped free of condensation--his hair was longer than it had been in a while, his eyes were dark and ringed in red with dark bags beneath them. He sighed as he fluffed his hair dry. It could be worse--at least he didn’t look as awful as he felt.

Stepping from the bathroom like he was somewhere he didn’t belong, he padded softly into the living room to Patrick sitting on the couch with the TV on to the Vikings/Raiders game. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and nodded his head towards the food, which Pete took carefully as he sat at the very farthest side of the couch.

They didn’t speak beyond little bursts here and there...a muttered _really?_ when the ref made a bad call, or a grin at each other when the Raiders touched down, or to laugh at a stupid car commercial with lots of lens flare and no point. Pete took their empty plates to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher, coming back and settling back down on the couch, tucked up like he was afraid he would spill over and hurt Patrick again, because he might, they might all be wrong, maybe they should have kept him longer, maybe they should have kept him _forever_ , he was a fucking danger, he was--

“Hey, calm down. Deep breath, it’s okay.” Patrick’s voice cut through his panic, and he realized he must have started to gasp again...so he closed his eyes and remembered the gif Jenna would have him breathe with...a collapsing pentagram that shrank and expanded...and he calmed down, smiling awkwardly at Patrick, who was beaming at him even as worry creased his brow. “Want to go pick a pill box?” He asked carefully and Pete nodded, grateful for the way he didn’t push, didn’t prod. Together they took the bottles out of the bag, picking a grid-like box with squares for morning, afternoon, evening. They shook the pills out, putting the correct number in each with the afternoon boxes left for the emergency doses of Prozac. It was soothing, in an odd way, he decided...it was like loading magazines, or digging a DFP...monotonous, reliable, sure.

When he finished loading up the boxes with the week’s worth of pills, Patrick squeezed his shoulder softly before leaving the room, off to do something adult-ish he was sure. Considering the clear plastic compartments, Pete wondered when life would be the same again...if it ever would be. His mind drifted back, settling for some reason on the third time Patrick had come to San Diego, the night before he had to leave to head back to Virginia…

_“You sure you have to go?” Pete murmured from where hewas currently engaged in kissing the inside of his thigh, tongue swirling along the pearlescent skin as he smiled at the way he was still shaking. Soft hands threaded through his hair as Patrick let out a long sigh, contented and sated...a bit more emotion than an exhale but just as calm. He hummed, deep in his throat and Pete crawled up higher, wanting to feel the vibrations of it. He laid his cheek against the light sprinkling of blonde hairs on Patrick’s chest and let the tiny feeling of the sound thrum through him like he was a reed, trembling with a single note, and let out a sigh of his own in contentment._

_“I wish I could stay.” Patrick murmured in the dark, the light of the moon shining through the crack in the curtains. But then he huffed, a small sound full of easy amusement. “Maybe it’s good I don’t though. Don’t want you to get sick of me.”_

_“Never.” Pete shifted and pushed them both over so they were laying side by side, nose to nose as he draped a hand over Patrick’s jaw, settling on his neck. He could feel his pulse, blood thundering through his carotid artery as it carried oxygen and life to the rest of him. It was steady, sure. “I’ll never get sick of you, ‘cause you’re fuckin’ perfect.” His heart fluttered as his brain tacked three words to the end of that sentence and he realized he actually could say them...he was allowed. “Cause you’re mine.”_

_“Yours.” Patrick smiled, fingers brushing his lips as a smile ghosted on his own, seashore-blue eyes the color of midnight in the darkness. “Just yours.” He breathed the words just before pushing close, sealing his mouth to Pete’s like he could entomb them inside him, lock them safely away forever, and Pete could feel his heart pounding like it would burst as it thundered a fever beat of mine mine Patrick mine perfect mine._

_They both had fought against falling asleep, knowing that when their alarms went off it would mean packing and final kisses, the long drive to the airport and a stilted goodbye...but it wasn’t any use. Sleep pulled at them both, sated and wrapped in each other, but just before they drifted off Pete murmured into Patrick’s chest, “Someday. Someday we’ll be together forever.”_

Rolling the memory through his mind as he turned the light out in the kitchen, he settled onto the couch, pulling the throw blanket from where it was folded neatly on the couch and then settling his journal on his lap, fingers caressing the words on the inner cover as he always did. Opening to a blank page, he started to write...pouring his feelings about the day, about the bruises on Patrick’s neck, about the pill boxes and the way it felt to cry in his own shower…

“Pete?” Looking up, he saw Patrick looking at him strangely as he came down the stairs clad in sleep pants and an old squadron t-shirt, his hair dark and wet from the shower. “What--what are you doing? It’s late?”

He shook his head, closing his journal and looking down at his clasped hands as he cast around for the right words, the right way to say it without making it sound like it was anyone’s fault but his own. “I...I’m gonna sleep down here.” Patrick’s eyes widened and he hastened to quantify his statement, determined that hurt wouldn’t seep into those sea shore eyes. God knows he’d put enough hurt there himself to last a lifetime. “It’s not, not that I don’t want to sleep with you. I just…” He waved his hand at Patrick’s neck, at the bruises that said everything he couldn’t bring himself to say as he sat down at the opposite end of the couch, staring at Pete with a small frown on his face. “I want you to be safe, I don’t want you to have to worry and I don’t think I’d be able to fall asleep either way ‘cause I’d be worrying and…” He wiped his hand over his face, trying to sort his thoughts out into the proper places. “Please? I need...I need to know I’m not going to hurt you again. I need to keep you safe ‘cause I love you.”

The look in Patrick’s eyes was part shock, part hurt, part intrigue. The words had rolled off his tongue easily, but his mind chastised him as he tried to remember the last time he had said I love you to his husband. But then Patrick was scooting forward and wrapping him up in a hug, his arms tight and safe and so familiar around him and Pete melted into it. It was the first time he’d done that since _then_ and...God it felt amazing.

“Okay.” Patrick mumbled into his neck and Pete just breathed him in, the familiar scent of his body wash and the smell that just meant husband. After a moment, he pulled away, blue eyes solemn but also filled with understanding as he met Pete’s gaze. “I’ll see you in the morning.” With a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, Patrick stood and padded back upstairs as Pete settled into the couch and picked his journal up. Relief washed over him as he swallowed the Restoril he had placed on the coffee table next to a glass of water, and the pen _scratch scratch scratched_ across the paper as he wrote himself to sleep


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I hope you're not too blue after last week...it was meant to be hopeful! But this week is definitely what I hope is a ray of sunshine in the storm! HUGE thanks to Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace for helping me with the beginning--you are a gem darling! Hope you all enjoy and that you'll come back for more! <3

 

“So, how was the weekend?” Jenna clicked her pen into place before setting it down on the table and folding her hands. 

  
Shrugging, Pete stared at the line of cacti on her windowsill. “It was okay. I slept a bit more, Patrick and I got breakfast at the Egg and I on Saturday and Sunday we went for a run.” He glanced down at his journal, at the list he made each day titled Good Things. “Oh, and we went and saw Ant Man. It was awesome.”  
  
Jenna smiled and nodded. “That's good, Pete, really good actually," her eyes flashed down to the journal on the battered journal resting on the table, the edges and spine already bent and worn from use, "I’m also glad to see that you've been using your journal, how has that been helping you?"  
  
Pete nodded as his fingers fiddled with the creased edge of the cover, thumbnail catching the edges of the white paper underneath. "I just write. It feels good to let everything out, to look back and see the good things. And it's nice I don't have to like...explain it to anyone. It doesn't have to make sense, I just word vomit on the paper what happened, how I feel instead of holding it all in, and when I do that it sometimes kinda makes sense." Pete chuckled nervously as he ran a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands, "But that's the point right?"  
  
"Exactly," she jots something down on her paper. "Those were the positives. Now, anything negative happen?”  
  
Worrying his lip between his teeth, Pete nodded. “I had a really vivid nightmare after I saw you Thursday, but…Patrick heard me.” He smiled softly, mind drifting back to the way his hands had been so gentle as he tugged Pete up to rest his head in his lap. Soothing fingers had slid through his hair, making soothing patterns against his scalp, and he had pressed his face to Patrick’s thigh and breathed deeply as he tried to stop shaking.  
  
“Did he wake you up?”  
  
“Yeah.” He took one of the stress balls from the bowl of them she had on her desk, the repetitive motion soothing as he squeezed open, closed, letting the weight of the ball give him something to focus on, to help ground him. “I think he was getting a glass of water or something and heard me. He woke me up and stayed with me until I fell asleep again.”  
  
“He stayed with you,” Jenna repeated, causing Pete to nod as his eyes watched, mesmerized, as pen dancing along paper for only a second before she set it down and continued. "Can you elaborate on that?"  She tilted her head to the side with her eyebrows raised just a little.  
  
“I’m--I’m still sleeping on the couch?”  
  
“Ah, I get you.” She nodded, pulling a tube of chapstick from her pocket and swiped it across her lips. “How’s that going? Has he said anything else to you about it?”  
  
Pete couldn’t help the smile from widening just a bit as he thought back...For a while, Patrick would just hug him goodnight before going up to bed, leaving him to his thoughts and his journaling. But they had settled into a sort of pattern; whenever he was agitated or depressed from an appointment or a flashback, Patrick would stay with him on the couch in the evenings, pulling him close and soothing him with softly-murmured words and a warm embrace. He was always gone when Pete woke up, but those were the nights he slept best--falling asleep with his head on Patrick’s lap or curled around him. With a start, he realized he hadn’t answered and gave a lopsided grin along with a shrug. “Not really. He stays with me on the couch sometimes, through.”  
  
“So I’m guessing sex has been out of the question, then?” Jenna’s voice was just as relaxed as ever, but Pete couldn’t help the way his eyes widened at her no-nonsense. Dr. Lederman had never asked him questions beyond the typical ‘how are you feeling’ and the other “standard” pre-canned questions he’d come to expect from years of military healthcare.  
  
“Ummm...no.” He felt his mouth firming into a line as his skin seemed to almost crawl with the thought of touching Patrick, letting himself that close. _Close enough to hurt him, he’d be vulnerable just like you want when you’re in close-quarters, close means near, means he isn’t safe from me, I’m not safe, I’m--_  
  
“-te...Pete?” Jenna called out his name, voice raised slightly, causing his head to snap up so his eyes met hers. “You drifted off there for a bit, but I'm going to guess it was into some not-so-good thoughts.” She nodded nonchalantly to the stress ball clenched tightly in his fist, the the veins in his arms protruding ever so slightly from the grip he had on it. "What were you thinking about just now?"  
  
The muscles of his throat hurt in a phantom parody of what he’d done to Patrick. “I--I can’t be with him like that. If I let him too close, I could hurt him. Again.”  
  
Jenna shook her head gently, lips pursed a bit in disagreement. “In all honestly Pete, I don’t think you will.” She leveled him with a look in order to forestall the burst of arguments that began to tumble from him. “Let's talk about this for a minute:  you’re not a violent criminal, and you aren’t a threat to him, even though at times I understand you may feel like it. That's your own fear instigating those kinds of intrusive thoughts, and you certainly aren’t in any way guilty of spousal abuse. Let me ask you this, have you ever physically threatened Patrick before this happened?” He shook his head instantly--he’d never hurt Patrick. Scream and yell and argue fiercely, yes they’d both been guilty of that, but resorting to fists never entered his mind.  
  
“No, I’d never but I did, I--”  
  
“--You had a violent and pervasive flashback while you were sleeping, Pete. Yes, you hurt Patrick, but did you do it with intent to hurt him?” He shook his head dumbly, trying to argue but unable to find a gap in her logic. “That’s right.” Jenna had a small smile on her face. “And when you realized what you were doing, that you were hurting him, did you pause before you let go? Did it enter your mind that maybe he deserved it or that it felt good?”  
  
“No, I--I actually fell off the bed I let go of him so fast.” He remembered the dull thud against the floor, the pain that had shot through him in an instant that he hadn’t even been able to acknowledge through the abject self-hatred flowing through him.  
  
“Have you thought about hitting him, or choking him, or pushing him since you left inpatient?” She was relentless in her questioning, but that was one of the things he liked about her--that take-no-hostages, unblinkingly-honest approach. He shook his head slowly, letting the words sink in.  
  
“No, I swear, but...I, I hurt him.”  
  
Her grey eyes were warm as they stared him down. “Yeah, you did," she folded her hands over her notebook before she continued, "I'm not here to try to erase what happened that night Pete, but rather to help you process what happened, why it happened, and how to help you cope so you can move forward. You’ve completely changed your life since, you’ve dedicated yourself completely to getting well.” She leaned forward, gaze boring through the whirlwind in his mind. “Pete, you aren’t a menace, you're not a monster, not by any means, understand? If you weren't willing to get better, to address the issues at hand, your inpatient treatment would have just been an overnight hospital stay, CPT wouldn’t work because you wouldn’t be inclined to question your own mindsets. What I'm saying is that none of this would be working if you didn't want the help. But you do. In actuality, the only thing that’s 'dangerous' about you is what you went through, and what it made you do when it was totally unchecked. But I promise you that if you keep working on this, keep journaling and keep being aware of your own responses, you’ll never do that to anyone again.”  
  
He could feel his mouth hanging open, the last few weeks of hiding from Patrick, of giving him a wide berth because he was so goddamned scared he’d hurt him again snapping against Jenna’s words. He sat back in the chair, stress ball hanging loosely in his slack hand as he just considered...and then a thought occurred to him, making his forehead crease in concern.  
  
“Patrick--he must, I’ve been avoiding him like the plague. He must think I hate him or something.”  
  
Another smile graced Jenna’s slim face. “Everything you’ve told me about Patrick and the way he’s behaved through all this...he doesn’t hate you. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably just been trying to be as sympathetic to your actions as he can be.” She handed him a familiar sheet of paper, divided into quarters with headers designed to help him work through problems. “Why don’t we talk about how you could explain this all to him, because I’m sure he’s been wondering. You don’t have to do it immediately...but let’s just start thinking about it, alright?”  

 

~//~

 

The rhythmic sound of his feet pounding against asphalt formed a soothing counterpoint to his thoughts as Pete ran, miles ticking down on his Fitbit but he paid that no heed. His mind was playing through the day’s events on repeat, like a video stuck in a loop…

 

_“Pete, do you remember that concussion you suffered in 2009? In Iraq?” Dr. Lederman was looking at him over his spectacles and Pete just nodded. “Well, upon further examination of your last few MRI’s and the physical aftermath of the incident, I’m thinking that the diagnosis of that event as a Mild Traumatic Brain Injury may be incorrect--the length of time you were unconscious and some of the levels seen on your scans make me think it may have been a Medium event. The reason that’s important is it drastically pre-disposes you to PTSD. Tell me, do you recall any changes after that event? Were you sensitive to light or sound? Did you find yourself getting angry easier, or being sad more?”_

 

 _The familiar pattern of the armchairs seemed suddenly foreign as his blood seemed to flow slower as it fell on him like a thunder burst--it made_ sense _. Horrible, blinding, complete sense. He had come home from that trip FURIOUS_ ... _he remembered Barney yelling at him as he tried to make the damn inventory forms balance out that he needed to take a chill pill, he remembered sitting in his truck and screaming at the radio when all the channels were on commercial breaks...he flinched as he remembered the argument he had gotten in with Patrick about Long’s birthday party and the way he had flinched away when he had punched the drywall until it was cracked in like a crater._

 

_“Yes.” He looked up at Dr. Lederman. “I--I was angry all the time and I just got worse the longer I was home. I thought I just needed to get back to the field and work it out but then everything happened with Chase, and--” His throat worked as he tried to find words that encompassed his shock--the horrible, awful way it made so much sense…_

 

_“Well, considering that and the level of disruption this has all caused, not to mention the way your knee surgery was only about 60% effective, I’m going to be recommending you for medical retirement. You've served with distinction, but I think it’s time for you to enjoy some of the peace you’ve sacrificed so much for. The paperwork will--”_

 

_The room faded from his mind as he ran, thinking back over the nearly year and a half since the roadside bomb blew up his convoy as they rumbled down the road towards Kirkuk, the sun setting in the West as they raced the dying light to make it back to the FOB. The only reason they had survived were the new blast plates that had been retrofitted onto their humvee the week before--two inch thick steel plates that came away charred and twisted but intact from the explosion. He had run his hand over them when he got out of the med tent--disoriented and barely able to recall the explosion, but with only a headache and some ringing in his ears to show for it. They had told him it had been a fireball like they'd never seen, and as he looked at the blackened remains of their faithful People Mover...he believed them, because he didn’t remember himself._

 

His feet hurt, he realized as he blinked away the dying rays of sunshine that were painting the sky a riot of pink and purple. Glancing down, his Fitbit told him he had run four miles...and suddenly taking interest in where he was, he realized he had another two miles to even get home from his current location. Judging by the way his knee was throbbing, he had better take those two miles slowly, so he changed his pace to an easy jog and thought some more.

 

_Medical Retirement._

 

He was only 33...it was an odd thing to think he would be _retired._ Dr. Lederman had said the paperwork wouldn’t take too long...he would probably be completely separated from the Navy in less than a month. His whole life, it had been the SEALs, since high school, since...well, his entire adulthood had been nothing but laser-focus on first becoming a SEAL, then becoming _the best_ SEAL, then being the best SEAL Leader...without that what was he? What was Pete Wentz without his Eagle and Anchor?

 

Was he anything? Or just a pathetic shell of a man, a murderer with blood on his hands and no knowledge other than the best way to take a life silently, the quickest way to breach a building, the fastest type of wiring for IED dismantlement. He had steady hands on his rifle before he pulled the trigger, he knew how to execute a HALO jump perfectly, he knew how to fix a machine gun jam in under three seconds...but what did any of that mean in Southern California? What good did that do him surrounded by yoga studios, dry cleaners, and vegan cafes?

 

His knee beat in time with his pulse, a steady thrum of pain as he turned the corner that led into their neighborhood. _Only another mile to go, you can do it_. He told himself, and pushing through the pain was almost familiar after countless deployments filled with aches and injuries.

 

_What are you?_

 

_What are you?_

 

_What are you?_

 

His feet kept time with the relentless circuit of uncertainty as he ran towards home.

 

~//~

 

Patrick had been understandably worried when he stumbled through the door…heart pounding and drenched in sweat. He had let out a torrent of _I was so worried, you weren’t back when I got home and I thought you had--oh my God, how far did you GO?_ He must have looked as bad as he felt, judging by the way Patrick had hustled him in and onto the couch, handing him pain pills dug up from somewhere hidden in the house and pressing a bag of frozen peas to his knee. He hadn’t really known what to say as he felt the miles he had gone settle on his body like a lightning strike, muscles protesting and joints humming with overuse. He had pushed to his feet with a _thank you_ and a smile, asking if dinner would keep until after he showered...and Patrick had been hurried in his assertion it would be fine. Before leaving, he went to his boxes and pulled one of the Ativan pills from the center, washing it down with the end of a Gatorade bottle. Running the water as hot as he could bear, he climbed in and stretched, ignoring his body’s protests, before washing away the sweat he felt caked along every inch of his body.

 

It was a normal night, after that...they ate some sort of stir fry on the couch, watching soccer in easy silence. He hoped that Patrick wouldn’t notice his hands shaking when he brought the fork to his mouth, that he would miss the tremor in his voice when he asked how his day had been. Desperately, he tried to imagine his husband’s day in the classroom, the art project they had done and the way Patrick would have smiled when a child wanted him to keep their work. He nodded, trying to smile like a _normal_ husband, to be interested in his partner’s day like a _normal_ person...and he thought he had it on lock, he was just beginning to release the tense breath that held his fear of failure, riding the hope that he could just be _okay_ for Patrick today.

 

But like always, his husband was far more perceptive than he gave him credit for, and a much better man than he deserved. Teeth were brushed, pajamas pulled on and lights turned off...and Patrick was back on the couch, scooting close to him and running soothing hands over his seriously overextended knee, massaging at the scars carefully.

 

“Did you--why did you run so far? The appointment not go the way you were hoping?” He asked cautiously, tentative like he was concerned Pete would explode. _Because you used to do that to him, asshole,_ his brain supplied and he felt a wave of guilt overwhelm him for a long moment...velvet blackness that fell over him like a stage curtain, leaving him with nowhere to run and pressed down on all sides. He pulled a breath through his nose, remembering what Jenna had made him write every day in his journal. _You can’t change the past, you can only change the future._

 

“I was...thinking.” He winced as Patrick’s fingers found a particularly tender spot. “They think...remember when I got that a concussion in Iraq?” Patrick nodded, confusion in his eyes as Pete continued. “Well, I guess they think it was actually a medium-level Traumatic Brain Injury, and it kinda left me open to all this.”

 

“I thought you just said you hit your head?”

 

Pete shook his head, chagrin flushing through him. “No, I...I had amnesia for almost a day. I was unconscious for twelve hours.”

 

“You never told me that.” Patrick’s voice, to his credit, held none of the reproach that he knew he deserved.

 

“I--” He struggled to find the right way to say it. “I guess I didn’t want you to worry, because there was nothing you could have done. I thought I was okay...but Dr. Lederman says that was why...why I was so angry when I got back.” He looked up at Patrick, guilt making his mouth pinch into a thin line as he saw the understanding echoed back at him. “I think I’ve been angry for a long time, really since that, and I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. He said it was the beginning of the changes that made all this able to happen and…” He swallowed, pushing himself to say it all, to get it all out. “Between the PTSD and that and my knee...he’s recommending me for medical retirement.”

 

There was a long heartbeat of silence as Patrick stared at him with wide, shocked eyes behind his glasses, mouth parted in shock. But then he shook his head, blinking several times before reaching out for Pete’s hand.

 

“Oh my God, babe, are you, how do you--”

 

“Feel?” Pete answered, hearing the tremor in his voice. “I--I dont know. I mean, I get it, I get why. But I just…” He looked down at their hands, lacing their fingers together and praying that was alright. “I don’t know what I’ll _do._ Like...I’ve done this my whole life, I don’t know what...what I even am anymore.”

 

A soft _Oh Pete_ drifted through his pulse that was suddenly pounding loud and demanding in his ears, and then he was being pulled into Patrick’s arms, wincing as his knee was jostled but not caring. Soothing fingers ran through his hair as he buried his face in Patrick’s chest, hot tears he didn’t want to fall tumbled free anyways as his whole body began to tremble with the effort of holding it in, holding it back, and failing a little at a time. Soft lips pressed to his forehead, his temple as Patrick made soft noises of comfort, murmuring _it’s okay_ as he tried to breathe, in and out, in and out… and Pete felt peace start to suffuse him, seeping into his bones. His mind dropped into a ocean of memories, drifting in and out of their shared history as he pulled in a deep breath of Patrick’s skin...

 

_“You’re really okay with...getting out? Leaving your job behind?” Pete laced their fingers, eyes searching Patrick’s face for a hint of regret or unhappiness at his assertion. But instead all he saw was something that looked a lot like relief, like excitement._

 

 _“More than okay.” A soft kiss was pressed to his lips, pulling away before it could turn into more, not that they hadn’t already done_ more _several times already that night. “I--it just makes me so damn happy to think about it, you know? I’ve seen so many horrible things, I’ve watched war up close and...I’m tired of it. I want peace, I want to forget about all the evil in the world and try to make it a bit better, not just safer. Does that make sense?” Blue eyes flicked to his, a flicker of concern in their depths, but he nodded quickly, hoping to banish it._

 

 _“No, I totally--well I can’t say I_ get _it personally? I love the mess, I love what I do...I just want to find the NEXT bad guy and fuck him up so I can move on to the next one? But I mean...you deserve that, babe. You deserve whatever makes you happy, just like being a SEAL makes me happy...so whatever you want, I’ll wave the pom-poms the whole time.”_

 

_Gratitude crested over Patrick’s face like a firework, like a wave just before it thunders over...and he squeezed his hand._

 

_“Thank you.”_

 

_He bit his lip, teeth a sharp counterpoint and asked the other question that had been plaguing him. “Is it...you’re not just doing it for me, are you?”_

 

_“No, dumbfuck.” Patrick pushed him over so he could climb on top of him, straddling his hips and God if Pete didn’t love the sight of him--creamy skin already blooming with gentle bruises from where he had bitten at his collarbones when he came. “I mean, would I do it for you? Absolutely, without a doubt...just like I know you would for me.” Pete nodded, thinking about the crazy turn this whole night had taken, considering HE had started it dead-set on getting out himself rather than be separated any longer. “But I--I want this. This is what I need and I’m just really happy it also means we get to be together. ‘Cause that’s what I want more than anything.”_

 

Shifting a bit, Pete couldn’t help but smile at the dream, at the memory conjured up in his sleep. That had been one of the best days of his life, knowing that Patrick would be _his_ to wake up to every day, to come home to every night...that their lives were no longer parallel lines forced into convergence by long plane flights and sheer force of will. They would _merge_ , they would be _together._

 

Then he realized it was more than just a dream--the feelings of contentment and safety, of not being alone anymore and rejoicing in it were _real_. Were inspired by life, were his body’s way of rejoicing and his heart leapt without his permission as he realized what was going on.

 

The morning light was streaming through the curtains, the TV was that odd navy blue color that mean it had gone into standby after they forgot to turn it off...and Patrick was still there. He had stayed, the whole night, arms cradling Pete as he slept, holding him close. With a sigh, Pete pressed his face just a hair closer, fingers closing reflexively against the soft skin where Patrick’s shirt had ridden up as he felt _safe_ , he felt _home_.

 

_Safe._

 

Like a black tide, fear surged up from his heart into his throat and he had to hold back from jumping out of warm arms and soft skin to check for bruises, to check and see if he had hurt him, if he had _done something_ in his sleep…

 

He must have twitched or tensed, an incremental movement of distress that Patrick picked up on. Distantly he wondered when his husband had become such a light sleeper--in the early days of their relationship, he could have slept through a bombing run. But then warm arms were tightening around him and he felt the whisper-soft huff of a breath against his cheek and it felt like something in his heart unlocked, uncoiled just a bit--a spring unwinding just a quarter-turn.

 

“Morning.” Patrick mumbled into his hair and he tipped his head to look up at him and was greeted with a soft smile and a fantastic example of _couchead._ “How’d you sleep?”

 

He couldn’t help the smile that split his face as it dawned over him--”I slept _amazing_ .” Because he _had_ . He had dreamed something _nice,_ he hadn’t tossed and turned and woken up from a nightmare and had to talk himself down from a panic attack. He felt _rested_ for the first time in a long time. “You stayed.” He couldn't help but say it, to point out the obvious that was so terribly out of place in this pale shade of the life he thought he’d have.

 

“Mmmmmhmmm.” Patrick looked up and felt along the top of the couch cushions before finding his glasses with a smile and pushing them on. “And nothing happened. Everything’s fine.”

 

Opening his mouth to say something, he closed it slowly as he realized that he didn’t really have anything _right_ to say. Patrick was _right..._ nothing had happened, they had slept--fucking amazingly--and they had both woken up just fine. _He hadn’t done anything._ So he just nodded with a small, embarrassed smile and squeezed Patrick’s side lightly.

 

A tinkling sound he recognized as Patrick’s first alarm went off, and the day began as his husband shut it off with a grumble and a sigh. “Time to go wrangle lion cubs.” They untangled from each other with a smile and Patrick shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee, squeezing Pete’s shoulder companionably as he left the room.

 

~//~

 

That night, he settled back into the couch with a cough--his meds left a strange chalky feeling in his throat--and put his journal on the coffee table with a small smile. It felt _good_ to get all the day’s thoughts off his chest, out in the open where he could look at them and sort through what was paranoia, what was logic, what was needless worrying. Sometimes, that is--some days he didn’t even read back over what he had written, content to merely let it live on the page rather than his head, feeling lighter like he had unburdened himself just a bit. Clicking off the light, he started to settle down, but was stopped by a soft call from the top of the stairs.

 

“Done?”

 

He looked up to see Patrick backlit by the soft bedroom light he knew was spilling from the odd stained-glass lamp on the nightstand. “Yeah? What’s up?”

 

Instead of answering, there was just the gentle creak of treads as Patrick came down the stairs. He came to stand in front of Pete, a gentle specter of soft pajama pants and blocky glasses, and held out a hand. “Come up to bed?”

 

Head jerking back like he was holding out a snake rather than an invitation, Pete looked up at him with wide eyes. “What?”

 

“Come to bed.” Patrick crouched down next to him and took his hand, fingers gentle but insistent. “Look, I know why you--why you wanted to stay here for a while. But nothing happened last night, and I know _nothing will_.”

 

“You can’t know that, I--” The words stopped abruptly as he saw the determination in Patrick’s eyes, the set to his shoulder and the conviction in the line of his lips. He had seen it many times a lifetime ago in Afghanistan as he prepared to brief, or as he chastised a subordinate, or answered Colonel Veyera with an answer he knew she didn’t want to hear. It was acceptance that he was right, the iron-clad trust in his own decision and the utter conviction to stand by it.

 

“No, I can’t know that with one hundred percent certainty, just like I didn’t know for sure that I wasn’t going to die on that jump you made me go on, or that I’m not going to get in a freak accident on the 15 in the morning.” Determined fingers laced with his own and Pete looked down at them, throat working as he tried to stave off the terror and hope both trying to claw their way out of his belly as he met blue, blue eyes. “This is my choice to make, okay? And I’m making it; I’m not afraid of you, so...come to bed, please?”

 

A hundred thoughts whirled through his mind, protestations that he shouldn’t be so trusting, that he wasn’t anywhere near done with his therapy, that it was a risk, _he_ was a risk he shouldn’t take...but then Jenna’s voice flashed through his head like a ribbon trailing from a bicycle handlebar, fluttering with a snap across his thoughts. _You aren’t a menace, you're not a monster, not by any means, understand?_ He took a deep breath, fighting down the panic as he nodded and let Patrick tug him off the couch. As he climbed the stairs, fingers still firmly laced with his husband’s, he argued fiercely with the fear tumbling around his heart. _You aren’t perfectly well, you’ll never be perfectly well but he trusts you, he TRUSTS you._ The thought echoed in his heart, the idea of Patrick trusting him, and he realized that between the two of them, Patrick definitely was the more _sane_ one, the one that he probably should put his money on, and Jenna had a damn degree in this stuff. Maybe it was time to…trust. After all, even if he didn’t completely trust himself, he trusted Patrick with his life, with everything. If Patrick asked him to close his eyes and jump off a cliff, he’d do it...so maybe he should trust Patrick, even if he didn’t fully trust himself.

 

_Trust Patrick._

 

He held onto that like a life raft as they crawled into bed, the sheets cold as he settled between them for the first time since _that night_ and he took a deep breath as he laid down. _Trust Patrick._ Fear skittered through him on needle-sharp legs as his head hit the pillow, making his limbs stiff as he lay perfectly straight, hands by his side as he wondered what to do, what was okay, what wasn’t going to--

 

Turning off the light and setting his glasses on the nightstand in a motion that was the most heartbreakingly familiar thing in the world, Patrick rolled to his side as he pulled the covers up to his chin like he always did. A gentle smile was on his face, but his eyes were solemn, like he understood the weight hanging in the air around them, the tension in this single moment of decision. Pete bit his lip as he tried not to vibrate out of his skin, tried not to break into a thousand reasons why he should run back downstairs to the couch…

 

“You okay?” Patrick asked, and Pete answered in the most honest way he could.

 

“I--I don’t know.”

 

There was a shuffle and Patrick’s hand popped up above the covers between them, held out like an offering, an invitation, a benediction. “It’ll be alright, I promise.”

 

 _Trust Patrick_.

 

Carefully, he turned to his side to face his husband, honesty and uncertainty making his words tumble out as he searched his face--so familiar, so perfect, so fragile. “I just never want to hurt you again.” He whispered the words, feeling his heart break and fit back together as he let the words out.

 

With a tiny shake of his head, Patrick pursed his lips and gave him a look that was part confidence, part sadness, and the rest filled with something Pete didn’t understand. It was almost like expectation, but not quite. “You won’t. Trust me.”

 

_Trust Patrick._

  
  


The words echoed in his head a final time before slipping into the space under his heart, making him feel--for the first time--like he could do it. Maybe, just maybe he could _deserve_ that faith, he could be _worthy_ of that trust. Nodding past a sudden stinging of tears in his eyes he brought his hand up to nestle against Patrick’s, fingers twining like he was the only thing keeping him from tumbling off the ledge.

 

“Okay.”

  
  
  
  


 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A goodbye and a hello =)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves, and Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate! Thank you for all the lovely comments...I can't think of a better way to say I'm thankful for you than to give you the chapter I've been waiting to write FOREVER! So, let me just say a huge thank you to Shattered_mirrors_and_lace for helping me work through the kinks on this chapter <3 I'm thrilled with how it turned out, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
> 
> NOTE: There is some slightly-racist teasing between friends. I hope you'll take it in the spirit of familiarity, rather than judgement, as that's how it's meant. <3

It had been an exhausting day of appointments—medical appointments at the base clinic, paperwork appointments with the weird people at the personnel building, even an idiotic appointment where an overly-enthusiastic man in his fifties had grilled Pete about how he was going to manage to live in Southern California as a retiree and all but begged Pete to let him create a “personalized budget.” Pete had pinched the bridge of his nose and tried  _ so _ hard to not scream at the guy at the use of the word  _ retiree _ . In the end, he walked out with an oddly-constructed budget in the interest of getting the guy to just sign his out-processing checklist with as little fuss as possible. The strangest one had been an appointment at the depressing-looking Veterans Affairs building, where he met with his VA rep—a nice guy named Demetrius—who had apparently been in the Marines before he was separated after losing a leg in Benghazi. After getting the required inter-service rivalry jokes out of the way, Pete realized that this was the first person he’d seen in the weeks of appointments who didn’t look at him with a sheen of judgement or pity in his eyes. Demetrius had explained the VA’s processes—every bit as convoluted and painful as he’d been warned—but promised to be there every step of the way. He made Pete program his number into his phone and promise to call anytime he needed anything, day or night, and he had walked out feeling like he had found an ally in a very strange place. 

 

That night, when he crawled into bed after helping Patrick cut out what seemed like a thousand hearts from construction paper to decorate his classroom for Valentine’s Day, he took a breath that felt like it was actually half-peaceful. He settled against the pillow and pulled the blankets up to his chin, wiggling his toes as he realized that their bed  _ really  _ was incredibly comfortable. Patrick settled in next to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek before putting his glasses on the nightstand and turning out the light. 

 

Silence stretched across the bedroom, but it was easy, warm, comforting. Pete realized he was learning to appreciate the different kinds of silences in his life—the quiet in his head after a long run, or the calm, accepting companionship as they sat on the couch and watched the week’s episode of  _ Game of Thrones _ with Patrick’s head resting on his shoulder. This silence was just full of sleep and the day’s worries melting away as the occasional car drove by and the light of the city lit up their windows. He was almost asleep, floating in the whisper-soft embrace of that twilight that came just before his brain drifted off...and Patrick’s foot nestled, warm and gentle, under his calf. 

 

~//~

 

The sun was just starting to rise over the distant hills as he jogged back up the driveway, grabbing the key from under the mat and opening the front door as quietly as possible. Wiping stinging sweat from his eyes, he limped slightly into the kitchen with the sole goal in life to find water. The sink gleamed at him and he decided fuck it, a little copper rust never killed anyone and he stuck his face under the tap and turned it on. Cold water cascaded over his face, sluicing away the sweat and feeling like the most refreshing thing in the world. He took a long drink before grabbing the dish towel Patrick always hung over the stove handle and mopping dry. 

 

A shuffling, dragging noise sounded in close proximity and he pulled the towel from his face as he spun around, knees automatically bending slightly as he tensed and brought his hands up. Blinking the last of the water from his eyes, he saw Patrick shuffling into the kitchen, eyes closed mid-yawn and nose crinkled adorably. A flush of shame skittered through him at his excessive response, but he pushed it away firmly. He hadn’t punched anyone, he hadn’t  _ done _ anything but tense up a bit...that wasn’t the worst reaction in the world. Jenna’s words flashed through his head— _ hypervigilance is the hardest symptom to overcome, Pete. Just work on tempering your responses, rather than stopping them all together. You have every reason to be on edge; that response has saved your life before so don’t be ashamed of it— _ and he took a deep breath, holding it for a count of five before letting it out his nose slowly. 

 

“Good Morning!” He chirped as he breathed back in a good breath but Patrick merely grunted. He reached his objective, flicking on the coffee pot before burrowing his face into his arms on the countertop and groaning. 

 

“No morning is ever good.” 

 

The characteristic display of  _ Morning Patrick _ made something warm sweep through him—his adorable spectre of a.m. grumpiness clad in fuzzy pajama pants and a faded grey P.T. Shirt, the silver Air Force wings on the back dulled with age and wear. He stepped over deliberately, hoping his footfalls were loud enough to avoid startling Patrick, and pulled him up from his current effort to merge his face with the melamine. He just gave a mumbled  _ mmphhgghh _ as Pete pulled him to his chest, wrapping his arms around a delightfully warm waist and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. For a long moment, Patrick just sagged against him and concern trickled into his heart...but then pale arms twined around his neck and Patrick nuzzled his neck as he turned his face away from the window. 

 

They stood that way for a tiny eternity—the only noises the gurgle of the coffee pot as it brewed away and the soft sound of their breaths mingling with the doves cooing from the eaves. Pete felt like something settled into place in his heart as he leaned against the counter, rested his cheek against Patrick’s bedhead and rubbed soft circles over his back. It was peace, it was...he realized with a shock, it was  _ ease.  _ The tense, brittle dance around each other that would drift between them sometimes was gone, melted away by the early morning light. His husband was a warm, heavy weight against him and it felt like  _ home _ . It felt like  _ before. _

 

But then the coffee pot gave a lackluster  _ ding _ and Patrick stirred, roused from his arms like a bear chasing a meal after a long winter’s nap. He gave Pete a small smile as he poured coffee into his mug—it was one of those paint-it-yourself types emblazoned with splotches of color and his name, made by one of his first students—and then closed his eyes as he took a long drink. 

 

“Mmmm...that’s the stuff.” He gestured towards the pot. “You want some?” 

 

Pete just shook his head, grabbing his bright pink camelback from the counter and filling it up. It had been a gift from the team for his 30th birthday, and he had refused to use the enclosed receipt to get a new color. It had been priceless watching everyone’s face when he pulled it out and sipped benignly during a pre-mission huddle. “I’m good, thanks...water’s probably a better bet.” 

 

“Go for a run?” Patrick’s voice was still husky with sleep as he took another sip, watching Pete with droopy blue eyes.

 

Nodding, Pete stretched his back. “Yeah, just three miles. Felt good.” 

 

“Mmmmmm.” Patrick cocked his head slightly. “Which is why you were  limping to the sink, right?” Giving an indifferent shrug, Pete rubbed at his knee, feeling the knot of pain starting to built behind the joint as he bent it. Patrick didn’t press, just drank his coffee down until the cup was empty and then letting out a contented sigh. “What do you have going on today?” 

 

“I’m—“ Pete rubbed his neck as his nerves from earlier rose back to the surface, reminding him how strange the day promised to be. “I’m gonna go see the team. I haven’t really...Barney’s been kinda keeping them back, so I could, you know.” He took another drink and Patrick just watched him, concern making his brows press together. “But I’m going to go talk to them, and just kinda…not say goodbye, but something?” He stared at his shoes, at the way the elastic on the sides criss-crossed back and forth as he swallowed thickly. 

 

“You okay?” Patrick asked softly and Pete looked up to see him pouring himself another cup of coffee, cradling it like it was full of magic brew, which he supposed it was. 

 

“Kinda?” He answered honestly, because that was something Jenna had been emphatic about—always telling the truth about how he was feeling was a big thing, apparently. “I mean, it’ll be great to see them but it’ll just be...weird?” He bit his lip and took a breath through his nose. “I just didn’t think it would end like this, you know? I know I had a good run, and they’re gonna be fine. But it’s just so weird to know it’s going to be over.” 

 

Nodding gently, Patrick pushed off from where he was leaning against the counter and moved towards him. “You’re not going to lose them, you know. You guys are family, and I know they’d never...think less of you.” His eyes were bright with compassion as he put his hand on Pete’s arm, squeezing gently. Nodding, Pete took another breath, letting it out as he covered Patrick’s hand with his own, murmuring a soft  _ thanks _ . Patrick gave him a small smile full of things that made him feel brave and whole, and he felt a ray of sunshine arc into his heart that he had forgotten existed during the long months of anger and denial. It was that unexplainable, incredible spark that was  _ Patrick  _ lodged in his heart—it made him feel like they could take on the world together. 

 

Nodding again, Patrick pressed a kiss to his lips that was soft and chaste, something he’d have no shame doing in front of his mother...but it felt like  _ you can do it _ and  _ I love you _ all wrapped in a two-second movement. As Patrick pulled away and gave him a final smile before shuffling out of the kitchen to get ready, Pete felt something like determination, something like courage settle into his bones...and it felt  _ good _ . 

 

~//~

 

Turning the corner down the familiar hallway, he pushed open the door that led to the team’s break room/kitchen/admin area...and into a nightmare. 

 

Well, that is if  _ nightmare _ meant seven cheering SEALs pulling party poppers underneath what looked like every single decoration from every Party City in the goddamn county. 

 

For a long moment he just stood and stared, mouth hanging open at the decorations--banners and pennants declaring “off the clock!” and “no work zone!” scattered through red, white, and blue streamers and a copious amount of what looked suspiciously like the Christmas garland Kelsey had strung up two years ago. His eyes drifted over the laughing, cheering, whistling, catcalling faces of his team, his family, his best friends and it was like time slowed for a second, everything muting out over the press of his heart against his ribs as it gasped out  _ family _ . 

 

And then it exploded around him in riotous sound and color and light—Long tackling him into a bear hug and Steele letting out an ear-splitting yowl of ‘ _ Kiss Him!’  _ Then Long was pressing a sloppy-wet kiss to his cheek, smearing it up to push his tongue into his ear. Pete laughed and hollered out his disgust, pushing Long off him just in time for Barney to settle a stupidly-fluorescent pink lei around his neck and press another sloppy kiss to his cheek. Pushing him forward with a smack on the ass, Barney moved him through the throng, to the the center of the group and to the waiting cake. It was emblazoned with about fifty candles and decorated with flowers and several crudely-drawn cock-and-balls in pink icing. 

 

“What is all this?” He gasped out through the tears of laughter at the cake, and Hileman rolled his eyes in his typical deadpan manner. 

 

“You really think we were gonna let you go without a party?” He shook his head. “What do you think we are,  _ Army?” _

 

“Now quit gabbing, pussy, ‘n blow the fuckin’ candles out. We all know you’ve got the lungs.” Barney winked and Pete laughed, pulling in a deep breath and blowing as hard as he could, succeeding in extinguishing all the candles to a tide of cheering. 

 

“He’s still got it!” Widman cracked and Pete shot back easily. 

 

“Yeah well, I made sure to spit on it just for you, asshole.” 

 

Then it was a crush of bodies as they surged in for cake, laughter and jokes flying through the air like sparkling darts and Pete felt something swell in his chest that filled him with joy that pressed against his lungs. They ate cake, swapping stories and catching up—no mention of why they were here, of why it was needed--just joy in being together. 

 

Then there was a shout over the din and everyone settled down. Pete turned to see Master Chief Edwards walk in with a huge shadow box and his throat tightened with emotion, tears stinging his eyes as he looked at it. A folded flag was ensconced in the top compartment, safe and perfectly preserved at the place of honor. Beneath that was the gold Eagle-and-Anchor, his rank insignia polished to brilliance, and his ribbon rack, showing all his deployments and honors. Beneath that hung a Navy Cross, and his eyes darted up to his former leaders’ as shock flooded through him. 

 

“ _ What _ ? But I, I—“

 

“No ‘buts,’ son.” Master Chief Edwards gave him a smile full of steel and he found himself shutting his mouth in unthinking obedience that had been drummed into him over a lifetime of following orders. Distantly he noted the team was on their feet, hands at the small of their backs and feet spread hip-length apart at Parade Rest as the Master Chief handed the shadow box to Barney, who took it and barked out a sharp  _ Atten-SHUN!,  _ before beginning to read from a creased paper.

 

“ _ Attention To Orders. The President of the United States Takes Pleasure in Presenting The Navy Cross To Chief Petty Officer Peter L. K. Wentz, For…” _

 

Pete couldn’t help the way his skin crawled as the words were read, detailing how he had safeguarded the rest of the team under fire, pulling Chase’s body to safety and taking the shot that silenced the sniper forever.  _ I don’t deserve this _ . The protestation swirled around his mind, screaming against his clenched teeth but...he couldn't say anything. Military Discipline kept his back straight and his chin high as he listened to the words and  _ hated them _ . 

 

But when it was over, Master Chief Edwards folded the paper and put it in his pocket to the  _ thump _ of seven pairs of boots moving outwards to stand back at Parade Rest. Fixing Pete with a gaze that said  _ I know and we’re not going to talk about it now _ , his former Team Leader folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. “Wentz, you’re one of the crazier ones I’ve ever had work for me, but there isn’t anyone I’d have picked over you to lead this team.” He glared at the gathered SEALs. “And now you’re leaving me to trust it to this bean-eater and hope he doesn’t get them all fat with Angela’s cooking.” Everyone laughed, loudest of all Barney. “But you know, men have to pass the torch, just like I did to you, and you deserve the fruits of all your years of labor, Wentz. So you’d just better hope that Garcia doesn’t fuck it up, otherwise I  _ will _ recall your ass off that golf course, so help me God.” With that, he stepped forward and offered Pete a crisp salute. “Fair winds and following seas, Chief.” 

 

“Thank you, Sir.” Pete saluted back, swallowing through the lump in his throat as he felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders...and then everyone was cheering, wrapping him in press of bodies as they all tried to hug him, slap him on the ass, and muss his hair all at once. It was raucous, it was ridiculous, it was barely-contained chaos punctuated by Edward’s barking laughter…but it was  _ his. _

 

~//~

 

He stayed late in the day with his team, drinking the beer someone had brought and swapping stories. As they cracked the lids on the first round, Pete lifted his bottle and spoke words he thought he’d never be able to say without a blinding stab of pain to the gut.

 

“To Mardoux.” 

 

Everyone raised their glasses with a sadness that somehow didn’t shade into melancholy. It ached but it was clean, it was real and heartbreaking but he realized in that moment...if their places had been reversed, if he had died that day on dusty Afghani soil,  _ this _ is how he’d want to be remembered. Something whispered in his heart, nothing so cliche as him hearing Chase from beyond the grave. But he could feel something settle into his bones as he realized if their places really had been reversed, he would want Chase to be happy. He would want him to live a full life with Naomi, to have babies and make them laugh every day...to be  _ whole _ . 

 

Maybe, just maybe, living his life  _ was _ the best way he could honor his fallen brother. 

 

All this hummed through him as he turned the corner into their neighborhood to the sun just sinking into the Pacific. He had texted Patrick earlier to say he’d be late and gotten a  _ no worries :)  _ text in reply. The light was on over the porch as he parked in the driveway and pulled the shadow box from the backseat carefully. It was an awkward exercise in balance and talented elbows, but he got the front door open and moved into the kitchen to set the box on the table. 

 

“Hey.” Patrick’s voice sounded from the doorway, and he looked up to see him walking in with a smile on his face. “Wow, that turned out  _ amazing.”  _

 

“Wait, you  _ knew _ about this?” Pete searched his husband’s face, shock making his jaw drop at the small, knowing smile on Patrick’s lips.

 

Reaching out with his cardigan pulled over the heel of his hand, Patrick buffed away a smudge from the glass. “I didn’t know  _ all  _ of it.” He met Pete’s shocked gaze and shrugged. “Barney called me last week and asked if I thought it would...if you’d be okay with it.” 

 

“Did you know about this?” Pete pointed to the Navy cross glittering benignly against the maroon velvet, and Patrick shook his head.

 

“No, I didn’t. But hey.” He reached out and took Pete’s hand, squeezing gently. “You deserve it.” 

 

“I really don’t.” 

 

Gently, Patrick rolled his eyes without any real ire. “What was that you used to say to me all the time?  _ The Navy’s always right?” _ Pete started to argue, protesting that he didn’t deserve it, but Patrick just shook his head. “Clearly someone thought you did, they don’t hand these out like candy.” He chuckled. “Unlike an Air Force Achievement medal.” 

 

They both laughed at the old joke, staring for a long moment at the box—a career wrapped up in glass and mahogany—and Pete shook his head. “Just feels weird.” Patrick didn’t say anything, didn’t argue or try to make him feel differently; he just pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and went to heat up the leftover lasagna.

 

~//~

 

They crawled in bed and Pete laid on his back, careful that he only took up precisely  _ half _ of the bed...careful to not touch. Happiness thrummed through him like steam clattering through pipes, and he realized it really felt  _ good  _ to feel good. Patrick climbed in next to him and placed his glasses on the nightstand with the familiar clatter, but didn’t turn the light off. Instead, he rolled over and bunched the pillow under his face, looking at Pete with a smile.

 

“So.” He said the word with an edge of playfulness that Pete wasn’t sure how to take--part of his heart leapt at it, at how  _ normal _ it sounded. But that was tempered with caution, with being oh so nervous that something would go wrong...so he just quirked an eyebrow at Patrick in response. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Patrick’s smile widened just a bit. He bit his lip between pearly white teeth for a moment as his eyes flashed down to Pete’s mouth before coming back up. “Would you want to...you know?” 

 

He could feel his eyes widening at the suggestion...it had been  _ months,  _ and the last time had been his awful display when he had screamed at Patrick when he couldn’t finish. His mind whirled—he wanted to say yes, but who knew if he’d even be able to get it up, if he’d do something in the moment, after all, he was a menace, it was too dangerous…

 

“Hey, hey.” Patrick slipped a hand gently against his jawline, soothing him as the protestations he didn’t realize he was saying slipped from his mouth. “You won’t do anything, ok? I’m awake and I’m here.” A small smile graced plump lips as he smoothed Pete’s hair back. “It’s just been a long time and...it’s not like we don’t know what to do.”

 

Indecision rocked Pete’s heart as he deliberated for a long moment. He could already feel his cock stirring to life, interested in the proceedings after what suddenly seemed like  _ forever _ ...and Patrick was offering…But what if something happened? What if it went horribly, what if he couldn’t—

 

_ Trust Patrick. _

 

His brain supplied the mantra he’d told himself ever since that first night...after all, who else would he trust? Who was more trustworthy? So with a deep breath, he murmured  _ okay _ as he gave a small smile he hoped didn’t look as terrified as he felt. 

 

There was a delighted light in Patrick’s eyes as he leaned close to press a soft kiss to his lips, scooting closer on the bed so their hips were flush and pushing Pete onto his back. The kiss deepened and Pete felt familiarity at war with his nerves—his mouth  _ remembered _ how this went and yet it had been so long, with so much fear and pain and heartbreak in between he felt his hands shake as he awkwardly placed them on Patrick’s shoulders. He didn’t know what to do, what was too much or too forward, if he should let Patrick lead, or if he should grab and bite. His breath shuddered a bit as Patrick pressed a line of hot kisses down his neck and he trembled, wanting to bury his hands in golden hair but not sure it he should. 

 

The silence was loud, pressing against him as he felt the hard press of Patrick’s cock against his hip and his low moan echoing between them. Patrick whispered  _ what do you want _ in his ear, and he couldn’t think of what he wanted. He was afraid to ask, afraid to push in case it all melted away, so he just shrugged, feeling fear coil in his gut like ice. Out of habit, he started pulling a breath in through his nose and counting to four before letting it out as panic started to rise in his throat.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Sitting back on his heels, Patrick bit his lip and cocked his head as he leveled a gentle glare at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

Pete bit his lip, looking at his navel in shame. “I—I don’t know what to do, what’s too much or...what if I do something? What if—“

 

“Pete, just... _ trust me. _ ” Patrick was looking at him like he was missing the answer to two plus two, and he felt shame curl in his gut as disappointment thundered through him. He felt broken, he felt alight with the conviction it would never be the same as he met Patrick’s eyes and tried to find a way to apologize. But instead, his husband’s gaze softened and he sighed as he slumped a little with a crooked grin. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?” 

 

“Kinda?” He didn't want to say yes, because God knows  _ Patrick _ wasn’t a mess...just him. “I’m just…” He didn’t want to say ‘ _ scared _ ,’ didn’t want to be the miserable, anxious, PTSD-riddled carcass that was afraid to have sex with his husband. But Patrick just leaned over him, shaking his head with a smile and kissing his cheek before bracing himself up.

 

“Hey. Babe, look at me.” Pete took a deep breath and flicked his gaze upwards, to seashore eyes that held no accusation, no trace of their earlier frustration. “I love you, and I trust you. Just...you don’t have to do anything, just let me take care of you. Or...at least trust me enough to let me love you, asshole.” Nodding, Pete gave him what he hoped was an apologetic smile, and Patrick pulled back. “Okay, well...how about this.” He reached over and tapped a few times on his phone, and the soothing baritone tones of a saxophone floated over them. “Hold onto the headboard.” He motioned to the wide slats and Pete slid his hands up to grasp them obediently. “You can let go whenever you want, or you can just keep them there. Whatever you like.” 

 

Nodding again, Pete took a breath as some of the tension bled out of him. Somehow it seemed easier, to not have to worry about anything except  _ being _ . When Patrick climbed up on him and pulled his own shirt off, miles of creamy white skin exposed to his eyes, he felt something stir between his hips. Patrick ran gentle hands down Pete’s arms, fingers trailing down his tensed biceps before cupping his face and bending down to press soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips as he tilted his hips just a fraction. The smooth jazz floated around them like a haze and for what seemed like hours they just made out like teenagers, hips working against the other’s as Patrick’s hands wound into his hair and he gripped the headboard like a life raft. 

 

“There you go.” Patrick breathed as he finally pulled away, kissing down his neck and then his mouth was descending on one of his nipples, hot and wet with just a hint of teeth and Pete couldn’t help the gasp that fell from his lips. Humming, Patrick continued, laving his tongue around and swirling before pulling away to blow gently on it, goosebumps rising on Pete’s skin as he shivered--not just from the cold. With gentle hands, Patrick tugged his pants down his hips, dragging them to his knees before reaching into the nightstand and then turning the light off. Pete concentrated on kicking his pants off and then he was back, spreading his legs and sucking down Pete’s cock. 

 

“ _ Fuck…”  _ He gasped as he threw his head back on the pillow, hips angling unconsciously as his back arched at the feeling—wet, hot,  _ perfect.  _ “Babe,  _ shit.” _ He gasped as Patrick hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head upwards, the suction making him swell and harden as blood rushed away from his traitorous brain and to his cock. Lube-slicked fingers circled his hole and he clenched instinctively, flinching just a bit and hating himself for it. “‘M fine, I’m sorry, I—“

 

“Shhh.” Patrick pulled off and blue eyes met his. “Don’t apologize, I’m sorry. I should have—are you okay with this?” 

 

He felt like his head was going to snap off the way he nodded, jerky and quick. Patrick pressed his mouth to the tender place where his leg and his hip met, that sensitive crease that never failed to make him groan (and he knew that, cheater) and sucked a gentle bruise as he slipped a finger inside. Ever so slowly he worked it, pulling back to swallow him down again but pausing to look up at him every few moments, to see if he was alright. Pete tried to watch, because  _ damn _ Patrick with his mouth full of cock was a sight that he would  _ never _ get tired of...but then a careful finger brushed  _ that _ place inside him and he was clenching everywhere, gasping as his legs twitched with the shock of it, the ecstasy. Humming, Patrick slid a second finger in, working him slowly with easy, undemanding movements and Pete just  _ buzzed  _ with it. His gasps and moans mingled with the trilling of the piano from the phone speakers, and before long he was a tingling, needy mess. He clenched the headboard with a white-knuckled grasp as he rode Patrick’s hand, pleas he distantly thought to be embarrassed of falling from his lips and he decided he  _ just didn’t care.  _ This was the most  _ alive _ he’d felt in so long. 

 

Pulling off him and moving up his body, lips shining spit-slicked and plump in the dimness, Patrick looked like every definition of beauty and debauchery that Pete had ever encountered. He settled over Pete’s hips, pajama-clad pressure not enough as he leaned over and Pete’s mind screeched to a halt—why did he still have his pants on? Was he not into this? Was he--

 

“Babe, look at me.” Patrick’s voice pulled him from the tangle of confusion and he looked away from the TMNT pants that filled him with all manner of concern and met the most beautiful eyes in the world. “What do you want? We can—I can finish you like that, if you like? We don’t have to—“

 

“No _ , please.”  _ Pete’s hands flew off the headboard to slide into Patrick’s hair, pulling him down for a kiss he suddenly needed more than he needed oxygen, more than he needed light or warmth, because his mouth was  _ all those things _ . Tongues met and collided, teeth clacking and hips grinding as Patrick gasped against him, hands tightening around his shoulders as he nodded. With trembling hands, Pete helped him push his pants off, mouth watering at the sight of his cock—his favorite one in the whole universe—bobbing in front of him and he wanted that. He needed it pushing down his throat, pushing into him, filling him up...he needed  _ all of it.  _

 

Patrick seemed to understand, crawling up to grab the top of the headboard so Pete could take his hips, guide that perfect blood-dark cock to his mouth until Patrick was writhing, gasping out his name in melodic stutters as he worked him over, the salty-bitter taste of his precome the most delicious thing in the universe on Pete’s tongue. With a moan, he pushed back, hands thumping to the pillow on either side of Pete’s head as he scooted back, claiming his mouth once again in a bruising, hungry kiss. 

 

“Please.” Patrick breathed, pressing a biting kiss to just below Pete’s ear, the place that always made him shudder like he was in the middle of a Chicago winter. “Please let me, let me make you feel good.” 

 

Nodding, Pete groaned out the only thing that made sense, the only thing that was perfect and safe and  _ good  _ as he wrapped his hands back around the headboard _. “Patrick _ .” 

 

“I got you.” Patrick whispered, hands sliding under his knees, wrapping them around his waist. Distantly, Pete heard the  _ click _ of the lube cap as Patrick pressed a gentle kiss to his chest, just above his heart, and then the blunt head of his cock was pressing against him. “I got you, baby. Relax, just relax for me, good boy.” Soothing fingers wound into his hair, tilting his head so Patrick could kiss him as he pressed in slowly, the movement agonizing and electrifying all at once. Gasping, Pete pushed against Patrick’s mouth, demanding more, begging and babbling against his lips as he moved deeper and deeper, a constant, agonizingly-slow slide. Breaking away for air, Pete gasped and Patrick murmured praise in his ear, how good he was, how amazing he felt, how well he was doing...

 

And then he was in. 

 

Gasping as Patrick bottomed out, Pete writhed as his body was trapped between  _ yes god please more _ and  _ no I’ll break _ . How had he forgotten how big Patrick was? He felt stretched, he felt like just a single movement and he’d shatter into a thousand pieces. But he realized he  _ wanted that... _ he needed it, he  _ needed _ Patrick to break him apart and put him back together. 

 

“I got you, you’re okay baby, you’re alright.” Patrick’s voice floated to him as tender fingers wiped away the tears he hadn’t even realized were leaking from his closed eyes. He opened them to see Patrick’s eyes wide above him, mouth parted as he panted shallowly and he realized with a start it  _ was _ alright. More tears leaked from his eyes as a single feeling overtook him, thundering through him like a flash flood, like a hurricane howling and relentless as he breathed the  _ only _ thing he could think of, the sole thought left his in head that wasn’t  _ PatrickPatrickPatrick.  _

 

“I love you.” He gasped, hands flying away from the headboard and up to cup Patrick’s face. He needed to  _ touch,  _ to  _ hold  _ his husband, his  _ everything _ : nothing else would do. Pete’s thumbs brushed over his lips, his cheeks as he gasped it out again—a prayer and a plea, his absolution and his conviction summed up in three words. “I love you, God Patrick,  _ I love you.”  _

 

“I love  _ you _ ,” Patrick breathed as he rolled his hips, “so much.” He pulled out and thrust back in gently as he murmured it again, a litany of  _ I love you’s  _ tumbling around them as he moved, plumbing Pete’s body as he started to shake. It was so much,  _ too much _ , he needed  _ more _ ...and so he pulled his husband down, sealing their mouths together as they both gasped and groaned. 

 

It was  _ creation _ , it was the infinitesimal spark of something between them as their bodies hissed and fused, combusting in an instant to expand outward in an unstoppable wave of force and light and truth. Pete felt like everything was gone, he was just a collection of neutrons of floating on the endless fabric of space and time...and all that mattered was  _ Patrick _ , was  _ I love you _ , was being broken apart until all the pain and darkness was obliterated by the blinding wave that tore through them. He held onto those words as he exploded, a whole universe of pain and ecstasy, of hopes and dreams and fears that was moored to the central gravity of  _ love _ , of  _ Patrick _ , of  _ Us.  _

 

He opened his eyes after the planets had settled into their orbits, after it had whistled him—a pure white wave of joy and completion so overwhelming he ached with it. He was barely aware of something warm and sticky coating him inside and out, of the way his breath was a jagged tattoo that thundered in his chest, of a forehead pressed to his neck as everything shook with twin earthquakes…

 

And then Patrick pulled his face from where he had buried it against his jaw, blue eyes shining with love and happiness and it struck him in the chest like a blow that  _ he _ had done that. He had made this beautiful human, the person who had stuck with him through thick and thin and who had given him more grace than he’d ever deserve...he had done that. Him, Pete Wentz, the fuck up, the one with the broken brain, the one who had done nothing but hurt and maim and kill his whole life... _ he had done that _ . He hadn’t  _ hurt _ Patrick, instead...he’d made him  _ happy. _ The light felt like it condensed, distilling down to a tiny ember just under his heart as he promised himself he’d spend the rest of his life doing this. He’d spend every day, he vowed, he’d work as hard as he could to  _ always _ make his Patrick happy. 

 

“I love you.” He whispered and Patrick smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth before rolling off and pulling Pete over with him; a tangle of arms and legs and sticky sheets and warm, sweat-slicked bodies.

 

“I love you, forever.” Patrick whispered back, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple in the dimness as he pulled him just a little tighter, a bit closer, and Pete fell asleep to the steady beat of Patrick’s heartbeat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D :D :D :D 
> 
> If you're interested in what the shadow box would look like, here's an example:   
> http://www.oramasnautical.com/detail.php?photoID=819&cid=Shadowboxes
> 
> Also, I bastardized the Navy SEAL retirement a bit...it didn't seem like Pete to have a super formal ceremony, so I just took bits and pieces from what I could find. It seemed to suit him more <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change is in the air...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my dears! Merry Christmas to all of you!!! <3 I'm sorry for the extended time between updates...I have no excuses beyond I've been traveling for work a ton and this chapter just seemed to give me a bit of a run for my money. BUT...I'm happy (finally!) with how it turned out, and I hope you enjoy it! Thank you all for sticking with me!! <3

The first thing Pete thought as he woke up was that he was _warm_. He was wrapped in what felt like the most perfect tangle of limbs, his head pressed into Patrick’s neck with sleep-slack arms wrapped around him. Even though they’d been sleeping back together for a while now, the centerline of the bed had stayed by some unspoken agreement an impenetrable barrier, a relationship-demilitarized zone that neither of them knew how to breach. _But damn this felt nice,_ he thought as he pressed his face just a bit more to the sweat-sweet skin and breathed in Patrick.

 

The second thing he thought was _owww._ He was _sore_ in strange places...Muscles protested as he stretched a bit, arching his back and extending his legs as his hamstrings seemed to scream a bit. What had he done yesterday?

 

The third thing he realized was his ass _hurt_ . It wasn’t a bad hurt, it was an ache that seemed to settle into him and push him towards something...something had happened. He felt uncharacteristically calm, something akin to contentment mingled with an unexplainable sense of safety that he couldn’t quite find a way to quantify. Then it flashed into his mind—Patrick’s eyes full of love in the dimness, lips brushing gentle encouragement into his skin like strokes of a paintbrush. Then it hit him like a freight train— _holy shit we had sex!!!!!!!_ The suddenly crystal-clear memories flicked through his brain like one of those old movies that clattered and fizzed but it was _real_ . He could feel it; the ache in his muscles, the scent of dried sweat and _other_ fluids, the way his heart felt melty and warm like caramel left on the stove. His hands—tucked to his chest like a child’s—traced gentle patterns across Patrick’s chest as he remembered. The care in Patrick’s touch, gentle fingers soothing away his fears and inadequacies, a warm mouth pressed to his own that made him feel whole and wanted. He thought about the happiness in Patrick’s eyes afterwards, the soft curve of his lips as he smiled—sated and _happy_. When did he stop pursuing that happiness in his husband’s face, when did he stop searching for ways to bring it out and make him laugh?

 

His mind drifted back farther, over the time since his return—skipping like a stone over the pond of memories. He saw his eyes full of worry as he stalked into the duty determination hearing, he saw Patrick squeezing his hand encouragingly at the top of the hike when he finally told him about Chase. A gentle smile flitted across his lips as he remembered waking up in the Navy hospital after his horrible HALO jump to Patrick’s beautiful face, and the joy in his eyes as they handed out candy to kids on halloween. But then his heart constricted when he remembered that awful, aborted attempt at sex, and he felt the memory cut him with razor-sharp strokes as his mind replayed the shocked pain and confusion on Patrick’s face as he pushed him away, screaming at him for his own inadequacies. Like a record sticking, his mind replayed all the times in the last few months he had hurt his husband—the cutting words, the ways he had pushed him away with a look or a grunt, spurning his attempts at compassion and love. His throat constricted as he remembered the raw, furious pain in Patrick’s eyes when he called him a coward and hurled bitter words dripping with vitriol across the kitchen that he should just leave him.

 

 _Why didn’t you leave me?_ He wondered at Patrick’s sleeping form, knowing full well that he deserved it a thousand times over, and then another five times after that. His mind drifted over the shuttered hope in Patrick’s eyes as he squeezed his hand in Dr. Lederman’s office after the disastrous PT incident...and he realized he understood that now. He had _still_ had an ember of hope in his heart that Pete would get better, that he would find a way to get well...even though Pete had stamped it down how many hundreds of times before. _I’m so sorry_ , he thought as his brain skipped over to the awful moment when he choked him, the feeling of his throat working under his fingers and the blinding, consuming wave of self-hatred that had filled him as he ran away. His mind pointed out the way the hope in Patrick’s eyes had dimmed almost to extinguishment by the time he had come to Pete in the psych ward...but then he remembered the way it had slowly increased as the time had eked away from that awful moment. He saw the small smiles that were given to him like tokens of encouragement as he filled his journal, he recalled the tiny touches and little moments as they learned to trust each other again, as Pete started to hope right along with Patrick.

 

 _I don’t deserve you,_ he thought as he pressed a tiny kiss to the downy soft skin of his chest, unable to help the feelings that were bubbling up like a volcano coming back to life. _Fuck you’re the—you’re a goddamn saint and I made it so hard,_ he thought as he tilted his head back just a bit so he could press his lips to where Patrick’s pulse was fluttering, where his hands had pressed bruises like brands around his neck a month and a half prior.

 

A muffled groan informed him that he’d woken Patrick--there was the soft flutter of his chest against his fingers as he took a deep breath and edged awake. The arms around him tightened just a bit like he was afraid Pete would melt away, and he felt something like resolve curl in his heart that he’d never do that again. He’d never make his husband feel small and unloved. Tilting his head, he pressed another soft kiss to the gossamer-soft skin of his neck and smiled at the way Patrick sighed as he did it again. “Morning,” he murmured, pulling away just enough so he could prop his head on the edge of the pillow and look up into Patrick’s face, scrunched in his standard _why is it fucking morning already_ look.

 

Groaning again, Patrick stretched before his eyes opened in a squint of disgust, nose scrunching as he looked down at where their hips were pressed together. “Oh God, it’s _everywhere_.”

 

A laugh bubbled up at the look on Patrick’s face as Pete realized yes—it _was_ everywhere. He could feel dried come between his legs, sticking the hairs of his chest and groin together...and it was just _so fucking perfect_. “Stay right there.” He murmured, pulling away from the delightful warmth to climb on wobbly legs from the bed and pad to the bathroom. A minute later he climbed back in, clean and free of any body fluids and bearing a warm cloth that he used to wipe Patrick down, relishing the dreamy look on his face. He swirled the cloth around his half-hard cock and unsuccessfully held back a giggle at the choked sound of surprise that Patrick let out.

 

“Thanks.” He murmured, grabbing Pete’s arm and pulling him down with that type of early-morning hulk-strength that always surprised him. Throwing the cloth off the bed and in the general direction of the bathroom, Pete sunk back down to the embrace of sheets that smelled like home and a newly-unstickied embrace of his favorite person. But then Patrick was scrunching his nose _again_ as he realized that there were fluids dried on the bedding, scooting back and Pete decided he was fucking brilliant. Sitting up, he tugged the corner of the sheet off the bed, pulling them back and kicking them off. With some tugging and ignoring of groaned protests from Patrick, he got the soiled sheets off and they collapsed down to the bare mattress. He pulled the comforter up over them like a fort and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of Patrick’s nose, laughing and feeling like a kid for an irrational moment.

 

Sleepy eyes blinked up at him, and Patrick smiled small and content as he sunk back into Pete’s arms with a sigh. “Morning,” he breathed and Pete could hear the smile in the word. “How are you feeling?”

 

 _Amazing. Horny. Sorry. Ashamed. In Love. Hungry. Remorseful. Melty. Content._ The words all thrummed through his mind and he picked the one that seemed to fit best. “Perfect.” Patrick hummed in happiness as he nuzzled a little closer and murmured _me too,_ and Pete felt like his heart would burst. “Babe...I, last night was…” He trailed off as he tried to find words and Patrick stayed quiet, just tracing soft patterns against his hipbone as he thought, finally settling on the sentiment that seemed the most _right._ “I don’t deserve you.”

 

Patrick snorted gently, foot tucking under his calf. “Yeah well, just let me know when you find a better short, pale music teacher. I’ll move my socks over for them.”

 

That was _wrong_ , Pete could feel his heart start to beat faster at the levity in his words contrasting with the pain in his own heart as he cast back over the memories he’d just re-lived. “No, listen to me.” He pushed Patrick over and propped himself up on his elbows, the comforter tenting over their head so he could believe for just a moment it was just them in the world, perfectly cocooned with each other. He looked down into seashore eyes and wished he could take away every time they’d ever flashed with hurt, that he could erase every time he’d filled them with tears. “I—I really fucked up, since I’ve been back. I mean, I _know_ that’s glaringly obvious but like...there’s so much I did to _you_ , so many times I was such a fucking dick. I don’t—“ he took in a gulp of air, the words dancing on his tongue like knives but he needed to say them, Patrick _deserved_ it. “You should have left me, and I don’t know why in the world you didn’t, but I _deserved_ it. I…”  Patrick’s hand came up soft and gentle to cup his cheek, and he felt like he was teetering on the balance of falling into those blue eyes as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know why you’re still here, but...I _promise_. I’ll never make you feel like that again. I’ll spend every minute of the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

 

Silence settled around them like a shroud on top of their little cocoon, and Patrick just looked at him for a long moment. Part of him wanted Patrick to leap to protestations, tell him he _wasn’t_ horrible, that it hadn’t been that bad. But it would be a lie--they both knew that, and Pete couldn’t help but be infinitely grateful that Patrick _didn’t_ dismiss his self-flagellating apology with a dismissive shrug. So he just looked at him, really _looked_ at those eyes that had captivated him across a dusty tent in Afghanistan, had danced with excitement as he barreled through security towards him, had opened on the pillow next to him for the best years of his life...and waited.

 

“Thanks.” Patrick murmured finally and gave a small sigh, lip caught between his teeth as he looked down. “I--I can’t say I didn’t think about it? But, I just _couldn’t_. Not after everything we’ve gone through to _be_ here, not after…” Shrugging gently, he gave Pete a smile that curved his lips up just a bit as he met Pete’s gaze. “But I love you.” He said it like that was enough, that was the answer and gosh wasn’t he an idiot for not knowing, for even asking...and Pete felt love wash across his heart that he knew he was totally unworthy to receive.

 

“I love you too.” He murmured just before pressing a soft, easy kiss against those lips that smiled for _him_ , even when he didn’t deserve it. Laying his head back on the pillow, he looked at Patrick, feeling like every cheesy movie couple in the world and loving it, loving this moment under the comforter like it was just them. “So...last night?”

 

“Was awesome?” A wicked grin flashed across Patrick’s face that was tinged with smug self-satisfaction, and Pete couldn’t hold back a laugh as he nodded, pushing closer and rolling Patrick over so he could press kisses along the part of his neck that he knew would make him laugh.

 

“So awesome.” He agreed, reveling in the burst of chuckled, protesting giggles from his husband as he pecked at him before settling back down to look at his face. His beautiful, sleep-drunk face with morning bedhead sticking up every which way and pillow-creases on his cheek. “Like, you’re kinda a sex god, if I haven’t told you lately.”

 

Patrick just laughed at that, fingers lacing with his in a gesture that was comforting, solid--safe. He pulled their joined hands up and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Pete’s, before fixing him with a gently inquisitive look. “So...you’re like, _done_ with the Navy in a week, right?” Pete nodded, the idea still so strange, so foreign, and Patrick seemed to notice. He wrapped his free arm around Pete’s waist and pulled him closer. “Well....what do you want to do?”

 

That _was_ the question, Pete knew...he suspected Patrick had been hesitant to ask him in light of his earlier outburst of fury and ire and he felt shame curl in him again. But he pushed that away, refusing to let the guilt push him into anything negative. Patrick didn’t deserve gloom and doom--he deserved bright, and happy, and _good_. If forgiving himself was how Pete gave that to him, then so be it. He’d learn to let it go. “I dunno...maybe I’ll learn to bake.”

 

There was a snort from next to him and he turned his head to see mirth shining in Patrick’s eyes as they rolled skyward. “Right. And what’s your next magic trick going to be, walking on water?”

 

He couldn’t _not_ tickle him for that, though they both knew it was true--he could barely put a frozen pizza in the oven without burning the house down. But moments later when they settled back against the pillows gasping for air from the impromptu tickle-fight, he felt even lighter than before. Laughing with Patrick, joking with him and teasing...it felt _right_. Patrick’s fingers laced gently with his as he thought some more, brain flicking through all possibilities of a life suddenly stretching ahead of him that didn’t include the SEALs. “I really don’t know. I mean, I never really thought...I thought _retired_ meant I was old and wore one of those hats and chewed on toothpicks, you know? Not like this. I never really planned on doing anything else.” Patrick hummed contemplatively and he sighed, still not feeling the dark cloud settle on him like he would have expected and it was _nice_ . Maybe here in their blanket fort with Patrick he could be okay. “What do you want, babe? I mean...we could move. Live somewhere else that doesn’t have crazy traffic or...I dunno. What do you want?”   


Patrick’s eyes flickered down for a moment, lower lip bitten between his teeth, and Pete’s heart seemed to skip a beat at the uncertainty on his face. Was there something he’d missed in these months of self-absorption? God knows he’d been so wrapped up in his own head and his own problems, Patrick could have dyed his hair blue and he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

 

“I, uhh…” His gaze came up to Pete and a shy look cast his features with hesitation and hope. “I’ve actually been thinking of going back to school? I didn’t really want to tell you before since you were going through so much, I didn’t want to like, overwhelm you.”

 

He paused, and Pete realized he was waiting for reassurance, to make sure he wouldn’t fly into a fit of rage or frustration. _You have to forgive yourself_ , he chided sternly, and hoped his face looked like something encouraging. “I’m good, I promise. Tell me?”

 

“Well, I just...I love music, you know? And I love my kids so much but like it makes me really sad how I can’t like be there like _in-depth_ when they’re going through something rough? Like Brian, his parents are splitting up and he’s been really quiet lately. I wish I could just...focus on him, you know? Like whatever he needed to do to work through that stuff, I want him to have it but I have like 24 other kids to teach too. So I just...I was thinking about getting a Masters in Music Therapy. Maybe becoming a counselor or a therapist, you know?”

 

Smiling, he nodded because he _did_ know. Patrick loved music--not in the way that Pete loved cars or whiskey or baseball--a generalized, big-picture interest that generally ebbed and flowed with his interests. No, Patrick _loved_ music like a painter loved art, like a fat kid loves cake, like a surfer loved the ocean...and he loved his kids in his class. It was such a natural, _perfect_ thing. “That’s really amazing babe. I think you should totally go for it.”  

 

Patrick’s smile was bright, hope flaring like the sun for a moment before faltering, dimming. “You--it wouldn’t be too much? I mean, I still have my GI Bill, but…” He met Pete’s gaze. “I, I don’t want to make you feel like I’ve got everything figured out when you’ve got so much changing.”

 

For a moment, Pete felt the words sting like salt in a papercut...not because they were delivered with spite or anger, but because they were _true_ . But a month and a half of bi-weekly sessions with Jenna meant he knew to take a breath in through his nose, to ask himself if his emotions were off the _truth_ or off _feelings_ . He let it out as he accepted the truth in Patrick’s words and told himself _change can be good. You’ll figure it out together_ , before shaking his head with a small smile. “I think you should do it. I’ll cheer you on every step of the way.”

 

As Patrick grinned, wide and without the hesitation and fear that had characterized his features for so long, Pete felt it settle into his bones that this was going to be _okay_.

 

~//~

 

The next few weeks were a blur and yet dragged on like sand was clogging his pockets and weighting his shoes down. He turned in his military ID and received his new sky-blue ID card with a shock that went through him as he saw his face printed next to the word “RETIRED.” He had texted Patrick as he walked out and felt the weight of change and the terror of the sudden newness settle over him, < _it’s done. Im ok jst need 2 think. Gonna go dwn 2 shore be home by 9, kk >. _ Patrick had replied with a dorky smile made of colons and parentheses, and he decided as he pulled his truck out of the parking lot that he’d teach Patrick how to use goddamned emojis as a retiree if it killed him. He spent the rest of the day sitting by the ocean, watching the SEALs training in the surf and journaling furiously until his pen ran out of ink. It was just so _strange_. To think he was done...it was over, the ride had finished. He found himself staring over the endless stretch of saltwater and thinking back over the years, on the good times...it had been a hell of a ride. With those thoughts in his head he watched the sunset, bands of purple, orange and pink exploding out from the horizon in a riot of beauty...and he sighed. His heart wasn’t filled with peace--it was a tumult of fear and unease, of dissatisfaction and frustration.

 

His phone beeped and he looked down to the text from Patrick. _ <you okay?> _ Staring at the text, black against the white background of the screen, he thought about the answer. Was he okay? He didn’t feel like hurting anyone, he didn’t feel like screaming or bashing his fist into the wall...he just felt hollowed out yet so brimming full of diametrically-opposed emotions he felt like a riptide was pulling at his insides. Fingers flying over the keys, he replied the best, most honest way he could. _ <I dnt kno? But Im hdg home. C u soon.> _ Fighting traffic along the highway at least felt familiar, rock classics blaring out of the stereo as he crept along the 5 and into the neighborhood.

 

When he walked in, Patrick came out of the kitchen drying his hands on a towel with wide, concerned eyes. He came towards Pete, arms outstretched to pull him into an embrace and that just felt _wrong_ , it felt like one touch and the riptide would pull him apart. Stepping back, he shook his head and held his hands up and felt the hurt in Patrick’s eyes like a sucker punch. “No, I’m--I’m sorry.” He ran a hand over his face in frustration. “I don’t mean to be...I just kinda need to be alone? But I’m not...it’s not you.”

 

Nodding, Patrick scratched behind his ear. “It’s okay, I’m sorry. I just, you used to--.” He clamped his lips shut but _You used to do that and then scream at me later that it was my fault_ hung unspoken between them. He shook his head and gave him a crooked smile. “It’s fine, I get it, really. Just...I’m here, if you need anything.”

 

“Thanks.” He tried to smile and wasn’t sure if it came out...so he just grabbed Patrick’s hand and squeezed it for a moment before heading upstairs.

 

The next morning he felt something like resolve, like excitement, the pain of _last day in the Navy_ washed away with _first day of something new_ . He kissed Patrick goodbye with a soft _thank you_ that he hoped conveyed everything he felt, his gratefulness for Patrick’s understanding the night before. Then he started--he packed his uniforms into boxes, leaving a single one hanging at the very end of the closet, _just in case_ . He folded and hung, tidied and straightened...working his way through the bedroom until it felt _good_.

 

By the time the weekend rolled around, he had gone through the whole house and proposed to a surprised Patrick that they have a yard sale. Saturday found them staking out a sign, putting a pink box of donuts on the little folding table and lugging boxes of things they had forgotten they even owned onto the yard. Sunday was lazy and full of wandering hands and warm morning kisses before they went to see a matinee together. It was _nice_ , he realized...just like it was _nice_ to plop down on the couch next to Patrick as he lesson planned for the coming week and watch the latest episode of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

But when all the newness of sleeping in late had worn off, when he had cleaned everything in the house twice, re-arranged the living room furniture three times, and alphabetized everything he could find...he realized he didn’t know what else to do. The gleaming countertops seemed to cackle at him with their pristine shine, the twice-vacuumed carpet filled his nostrils with that curious scent of clean fibers, and he just didn’t know what to do about it all. _What_ was he supposed to do now?

 

He still hadn’t found the answer a week later when he started going to the gym twice a day, working out until his joints ached and Patrick commented he’d have to start buying new shirts that didn’t fit him like a CrossFit-obsessed asshole. He started running, imagining that maybe he’d train for a marathon, but his knee swelling up like an overripe fruit and Patrick making the goddamned appointment at the VA for him ended that dream. The doctor—a bored looking sextagenarian—told him that he needed to do nothing more strenuous for walking for the next two weeks, and that running was absolutely out of the question. He suggested Pete try water aerobics and it took everything inside him to not strangle the guy with his own damn stethoscope. _Water aerobics,_ he scoffed to Patrick that night over lasagna that he had miraculously cooked himself—well, _cooked_ meaning put in an oven he remembered to turn on and then had taken it out at the correct time.

 

Patrick had laughed with him, joking that he could probably get him a headband if he wanted—orange, since it was his favorite color? Snorting at the image, Pete had shook his head with a mumble about headbands and where you could stuff them. But then Patrick informed him that since he was so bored, he should come with them on the field trip to the Aquarium the next day. It’d do him good to get out of the house, he had opined, and Pete shrugged. Why not? He had nothing better to do. Then asked if he had applied to SDSU’s grad school yet, and Patrick had shifted in his seat.  “No? I don’t know it just...I want to? But the thought of leaving my kids is just so--I walk into class and all my resolve dries up when I see them.”

 

Pete had nodded, fully understanding his hesitation. “I get that babe. Trust me…” It felt good, he realized to be able to encourage _Patrick_ for once. Usually it was the other way around. “It definitely isn’t easy when things change but I know, whenever you’re ready, you’re going to be amazing.”

 

There had been something soft and tender in Patrick’s eyes when he murmured _thanks_ , something in his fleeting touches and brushes of hands and hips as they put the food away and washed the dishes. There was tenderness in his eyes when he climbed into bed warm and flushed from the shower and slipped his hands into Pete’s boxers as he pressed a deep kiss to his lips. He seemed hazy, indistinct almost through the drugged press of the sleeping pills Pete still took every night as he sunk down on his cock, and he couldn’t help but reach up and stroke his hand across a pale cheek, just to be sure he was real.

 

Patrick had rocked his hips then, grinding down at a languid pace that had him moving deep inside him, never relinquishing an inch of perfect heat and tightness. It had all burst around him then, pushing through the grey haze of Ambien in an explosion of exquisite color and sensation. He had scrabbled up on his elbows, pushing up so Patrick could lean down and kiss the air from his lungs while he fucked Pete down into the mattress. He came, gasping as he fell back as Patrick’s hand moved furiously on his cock. He reached his own shaking one up to bat it away, stroking him quick with a flick of his thumb under the head, and Patrick was clenching down, crying out a stuttered curse as he striped them both white.

 

He hadn’t been able to hold out long after that...the fuzzy veil of sleep and sedatives curling around him like smoke. Mumbling apologies that Patrick shushed gently, he had distantly noticed the soft scrape of his boxers wicking his stomach clean before soft lips pressed to his neck as Patrick settled next to him.

 

“—Love you.” He wasn’t sure if he said it, slurred impossibly as the mist closed around him but he swore he heard the words echoed back. But then he was gone, dipping beneath the waves as sleep wrapped him tight as the arms around him.

 

~//~

 

The next morning was a flurry of Patrick in teacher mode, greeting him with a paper sack of lunch when he stumbled down the stairs and reminding him that cell service wasn’t very good in the Aquarium, so he needed to meet them there at 10 o’clock sharp. Pete had nodded, yawning into his coffee and giving him a half-hearted glare. “Timeliness is the cornerstone of successful operations, ‘Trick. I _know_ how to be punctual.”

 

Patrick had laughed and given him a look. “Right. Because you guys were _always_ on time to my briefings.” They laughed because they both know it was the farthest thing from the truth—the team had almost always rolled into the tent at least five minutes late--all raucous laughter and half-assed apologies. Patrick pressed a kiss to his cheek as he reached over him to grab his keys from the counter and Pete had turned, grabbing him and pulling him close for a deep, hungry kiss. He had been gratified at the wash of color high on Patrick’s pale cheeks when he finally pulled away. “What was that for?”

 

A shrug seemed the best communication method he could muster up for a moment as he looked down at his navel before meeting Patrick’s eyes. “I dunno. You’re just awesome and...yeah.”

 

He realized that the light in Patrick’s eyes as he had blushed and squeezed his hand was something he hadn’t seen regularly for a long time...and it felt good.

 

~//~

 

At _precisely_ 9:55am he was walking up to the entrance of the aquarium, eyeing the giant painted-on octopus on the glass with trepidation. He presented his retiree ID to the bored teen who stamped his hand and ushered him through with a flutter of disinterested fingers and he just felt _off_. The distant buzz of anxiety was rising under his skin and he wondered if this was a good idea—if he shouldn’t just down the Ativan he always had in his wallet and find a corner to hole up in until Patrick could take his half-comatose ass home.

 

His husband was perceptive as hell, even with twenty-five babbling children surging around him like an unorderly cosmos. He had disentangled himself from a blonde girl with her hair in pigtails who was trying to cling to his leg and moved over to Pete with a concerned look on his face, carefully reaching out for his hand.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Suddenly feeling like a giant disappointment, Pete shook his head and sighed. “I dunno, I just don’t feel right. Like...edgy? Not like I’m gonna explode or anything, just...I dunno.” He shoved his other hand in his pocket and thought about curling up in a ball. Instead, he was wrapped in a Patrick-hug—one of the all-encompassing, full-body experiences that he loved—and he relaxed just a bit as his husband whispered _It’s okay, I love you. You’re gonna be fine._ He nodded into Patrick’s neck, noticing the little faces staring at them. “Uhhh. We kinda have an audience?” He mumbled, and Patrick pulled away with a giggle.

 

“Yeah, I kinda forgot. They’re all super excited to meet you.” Patrick introduced him to the kids, and they were a surprisingly orderly chaotic mass as they waved hello with giggles and the occasional smooching noise. He waved awkwardly, already feeling out of place and much too big in his skin, but then Patrick was calling out for everyone to take their partner’s hand.

 

A little boy with wide, dark eyes shuffled over to them, looking up morosely in silence. He scrunched his nose and Pete recognized the telltale signs of someone trying not to cry. Patrick crouched down with a smile, looking up at Pete for a moment with something playful in his eyes. “Carl, this is my husband, Pete. He’s kinda feeling blue today, do you think you guys could be partners?”

 

Carl looked up at him and suddenly Pete felt _very_ judged as he was examined critically by the six-year-old. Like he was bestowing a great honor, Carl nodded and held out a length of thick rope, knotted at both ends.

 

“He has a sensory processing delay, so he doesn’t like to be touched.” Patrick whispered in his ear as he stood up. “So you just hold the other end of the rope so you can stay together.” Pete nodded with a shrug, taking hold of the rope and feeling his heart lift a bit at the small smile Carl gave him. Patrick squeezed his hand. “I figured you guys might get along...he’s a really bright kid, just quiet and kinda...needs space sometimes.” Pete laughed and looked down at the small kid next to him, giving him a thumbs up that Carl returned with a toothy smile.

 

“We’ll stay together, Teacher Patrick.” Pete told his husband earnestly, and Patrick rolled his eyes before winking. Moving away, he started to herd the pack of paired kindergarteners towards the sign pointing towards the “Great Tank.” Looking down at Carl, he shrugged. “Ready to see some fish?”  There was no answer, he just tugged the rope and Pete followed, heading after the gaggle.

 

~//~

 

Four hours later, the class was huddled in a circle eating their sandwiches and excitedly talking amongst themselves about the jellyfish, who would be a shark if they were all fish, and if you could taste the pee in the water.

 

Pete and Carl were seated separate from the group, looking up at the giant whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling in easy silence. Carl was chewing methodically, taking a bite first from the left side of his sandwich then from the right, feet tucked up under him in a perfectly criss-cross applesauce pose. Pete chewed on his sandwich and thought back to water survival school and the time that Long had almost drowned...only to demand whiskey as a curative when he woke up.

 

“Only the boy whales sing, you know.”

 

Looking down at his companion, who hadn’t spoken at all during their trek through the aquarium, Pete couldn’t help the surprise on his face. “Huh?” He managed, surprised at how high Carl’s voice was, and received an exasperated look in return.

 

“I _said_ only the boy whales sing. You know, to get a mate.”

 

Considering the giant skeleton, Pete hummed contemplatively. “That’s interesting. You know, Teacher Patrick sings really nice.”

 

Carl gave him a knowing look. “Is that how you knew he was your mate?” He said it with such deadpan honesty, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Pete couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Yeah, it definitely was one of them.” Carl nodded like Pete had told him something very elementary, like the sky was blue or the earth was _down_. They resumed eating, punctuated with Carl volunteering various facts about Humpback whales, like that calves grow until they’re ten years old, and that they have whiskers like a cat. Pete just listened in silence, appreciating the factual calmness of the little boy’s manner...he reminded him of an owl, wise and unruffled.

 

But then Carl stood up, putting the remainder of his sandwich in his bag and simply walked away to a woman with the same sandy blonde hair who gave him a hug as she said hello to Patrick. Pete shrugged, figuring that must be his mother if Patrick wasn’t freaking out about a stranger abducting one of his charges. Taking and end of Carl’s rope, the woman began to lead him towards the exits...but Carl turned for a moment and waved to Pete solemnly, like he was going to a funeral rather than home. Pete waved back, noticing the way Patrick’s head whipped around to look at the tiny scene, and the incredulous smile on his face.

 

Twenty minutes later the last kid had been claimed and Patrick ambled over, plunking down next to Pete with a huff. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

 

“Such language for an innocent Kindergarten teacher!” Pete teased, laughing at the look Patrick gave him.

 

“Whatever. They’re gone and I can say bad words as much as I want. I’m a goddamn grown-up.” He grumbled with a huff. “Field trips are fun but _god_ I’m tired.”

 

“You’re a regular kid-wrangler.”

 

Patrick looked over at him sidelong, a gentle smile on his lips. “Carl waved goodbye to you, huh?”

 

Nodding, Pete scratched his ear absently. “Yeah, he’s a cool kid. He told me that whales have whiskers like a cat.”

 

“He talked to you?” Patrick’s eyes were definitely widening now as he turned a bit to look at his husband. “Really? That’s amazing babe. He’s almost...he’s not very verbal. It’s a good day if he says three words all of class.”

 

Shrugging, Pete got to his feet, pulling Patrick up with him. “He’s a cool kid. I like him.”

 

“ _You’re_ a cool kid.” Patrick teased back, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Feeling any better?”

 

Pausing for a moment, Pete took stock of his mental state...surprised to feel the buzz had faded a bit, still there but subdued, manageable. He squeezed Patrick’s hand with a smile. “Yeah, actually. Maybe the fish really _are_ magic like that one kid said.”

 

“You never know.” Patrick laughed as they headed out into the afternoon sunshine.  


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change is in the air...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY. @Snitchesandtalkers *kindly* reminded me that it's been two months since I updated this...and she was so right. Motivated by horror at my neglectful behavior...here we are. Huge thanks to @shattered_mirrors_and_lace who helped me figure out the structure of this chapter (and outline the whole rest of the story!) Hopefully now that I know where I'm going, I'll update more frequently. Thank you for reading and sticking with me friends!! <3

 

 

_Time has a funny way of changing everything. Maybe it’s changing you--maybe the endless movement of the clock’s hands is winding something forward inside you as well. Maybe it’s that it changes your surroundings and you realize you’re in a new place, with new challenges and possibilities, even though you might be exactly where you were before. Maybe it’s just the action of movement...time is the only thing that doesn’t lose something to entropy. It just goes on, and on, and on forever._

 

_Shit, that was poetic. Maybe I missed my calling and I should have been a songwriter or something...haha. Can you imagine that? But it’s been...well, strange? Different? New? Exciting? All of those words would be accurate. I mean, it’s crazy to think I’ve been a civilian for three months now--a retiree, no less. Like, I never thought I’d be here, but it’s definitely got its advantages. I actually baked Patrick a cake for his birthday, not that it was anything ACTUALLY noteworthy just one of those box ones but its me. His smile was something pretty awesome when I brought it to the classroom for him and all the kids sang to him. Kids are actually pretty cool._

 

_I still see the guys, and we still go to all the BBQ’s and send-offs and baby-showers and stuff. It was hard at first, but Hileman said something to me one of the times that really hit me--he said things that can’t bend break when the world changes around them. Pretty fucking deep, but then again he’s always been that guy. He was right though--I’d be the one losing out if I let the weirdness of not being a SEAL anymore take my team away from me. I’d be the one breaking, and that’d be stupid. So I just kept going, kept talking, kept beating their asses in the contests (garcia bitched so hard about having to do a whiskey shot) and it doesn’t hurt as much. Steele’s baby is the cutest fucking thing in the world, too, I swear to God.  So...It’s good--they’re still my team._

 

_I need something to do. I thought about going back to school, but I don’t really have any clue what I’d want to study and its not like I’d go just for the fun of it. Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out what I want to be when I grow up but...nah. Patrick’s the smart one in the family, he sent his application in to the grad program about three weeks ago. We’ll see, but I’m sure he’ll get accepted. I want to do something for him, but I don’t know what. He’s like...man. I don’t know what the fuck I did right in some other life that he stayed with me, I swear. But I think I’m at least….well, he smiles more. I wish I could say I was as good a husband as he is for me, but I know that’s not true but I try. I saw a pair of TMNT pajamas at walmart and got them for him, and I started texting him randomly to tell him I love him. We’ve been messing around sometimes at night with music--it’s really fun. It’s been years since I picked up an instrument but...he’ll play shit on his keyboard or whatever and I’ll pound away on his guitar and it’s fun. He laughs a lot--we both do--when we do that. I feel like...everytime I make him smile, or laugh or whatever, I feel like I’m putting a penny on the scales and what I did to him is on the other side. Its like...I don’t know if I’ll ever balance it, fuck I don’t know that I even deserve to try. But I’ll keep doing it and maybe someday I won’t see bruises on his neck, I won’t remember the way he looked so hurt when I’d yell at him. He fuckin’ deserves way more than that, though. I just gotta figure it out._

 

_Maybe I’ll become a welder? Or...I’d say a surf instructor but I can’t surf for shit. Jenna says I need to not be too hard on myself to find a purpose, and she’s right. My purpose right now is getting well, and fuck sometimes that’s hard. I went a whole week without a panic attack, though. That’s really cool. Someday I’d like to not be on medications anymore, but who knows. I’ll take them forever if it means I get to keep him, to keep this all. The VA guy, Demetrius, he’s been bugging me to go to some Disabled Vets workshop or something? I don’t know if I’m ready to be around a bunch of guys who lost their legs and stuff...what would I say? Hi I’m Pete and I went crazy? Nah. Wish I could run--training for a marathon is always a good way to stay focused but knee says absolutely no to that. Meh…I found a recipe for “easy chicken and dumplings.” Apparently it’s foolproof, according to the internet. I’m gonna try to make that for dinner tomorrow night and we’ll see if its actually impossible to mess up. Challenge accepted._

 

_Okay. List time. Night. -Pete_

 

 

  * __Drove all the way home without hitting a single red light, AND I found my fav metallica CD under the seat.__


  * _Told Patrick a joke that made him laugh really hard._


  * _No nightmares last night._



 

  


_~//~_

 

“Dude, I fucking swear that people are idiots. Like, there was this accident _on the other side of the highway_ and traffic was backed up for two miles just so people could rubberneck. It’s ridiculous what--”

 

Patrick’s customary prattle stopped floating to him from the kitchen abruptly and Pete looked up from the couch where he was _this close_ to beating level 87 of Candy Crush. “Babe?” There was no answer from the kitchen, just an eerie stillness that made him wonder if he’d imagined his husband barging through the front door. Getting up and wincing at the stab of pain that shot through his knee, he nearly ran into the kitchen to see what was wrong, surely something must be wrong--

 

His bag was at his feet, keys on the table on top of a pile of construction paper and he _looked_ alright--he looked like normal Patrick coming home from a day with twenty-five six-year-olds. He was holding a thick-looking envelope in his hands; Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick’s waist and peered down at the front.

 

_Office of Graduate Admissions._

 

“Oh my God, Trick!” He started bouncing on his toes just a little...the excitement vibrating through him in distinct contrast to Patrick’s stone-like stillness. “Babe, _ohmygoshopenit_ , c’mon!”

 

“What if I didn’t get in?” Patrick murmured, eyes riveted on the envelope like it held his fate. Pete supposed it did, in a way.

 

“No way. If that was a rejection letter it wouldn't be that thick! It’d just be one sheet, so it’s gotta be good news!” He pressed his mouth to Patrick’s neck, not kissing him but to keep from babbling more reassurance and idiotic prophecies, and he felt the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed.

 

Long fingers turned the envelope over and delicately worked under the flap carefully, ripping as little as possible. Pete felt like he would vibrate out of his skin in excitement and nerves--wishing he could just rip it open for him and be done with it...but he knew that wasn’t Patrick’s way. He was the same with Christmas and birthday presents as well, while Pete would tear things from end to end in haste and excitement.

 

But then he was pulling a thick sheaf of cream-colored paper from the envelope, unfolding it gingerly. They both held their breath as he straightened the top, revealing the words.

 

_“Mr. Stump,_

 

_On behalf of the Graduate Admissions Committee, I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Masters of Music Therapy Program, beginning in the Fall semester of 2013. Only those applicants whose experience demonstrates extraordinary potential and promise are accepted into this program. This year, San Diego State University reviewed a large and highly competitive group of applicants, and I commend you on standing out among your peers.”_

 

“ _YESSS!”_ Pete couldn’t help it, he lifted Patrick off his feet and spun him around the kitchen, laughing at his yelp of surprise, before setting him back down to read the rest of the letter.

 

_“Our faculty looks forward to working with you and welcoming you to our internationally-recognized community of scholars. We strongly believe that you will find the academic environment and emphasis on real-world experience at SDSU a perfect educational setting in which to challenge yourself. We share your enthusiasm about your future, and extend our sincere congratulations on your acceptance. Your welcome packet is enclosed, please don’t hesitate to reach out to the student registrar with any questions.”_

 

“I--I…” Patrick stared at the letter like he was afraid it was going to melt away, like it was one of those ones that would burst into flame as a joke as Pete gently turned him around. Wide blue eyes met his as he put his hands gently on Patrick’s shoulders, heart feeling like it was going to burst with pride. “This isn’t a joke? I really got in?”

 

“You really got in, babe.” Pete’s face felt like it was going to split in two from smiling so wide as he watched the realization blossom over Patrick’s face--doubt melted into shock that melted into joy. His lips curved up as his eyes started to sparkle with the barest misting of tears…and then he was jumping into Pete’s arms as they both started laughing, Pete yelling out a war cry of excitement and pride as Patrick gasped out a babble of _oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh._

 

“I--I can’t believe it.” He gasped when Pete set him down, beanie forgotten on the floor and his mouth gaping open as his eyes flitted over the words again and again.

 

“Well, _I_ can.” Pete pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his neck as he cradled him sideways against his chest and looked down as he flipped through the papers, reading about financing and start dates and finding a mentor. “You’re going to be the greatest therapist in the world, babe. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.” He led his shell-shocked husband back into the living room and pushed him down to the couch, grinning like a maniac as he read the pages over for a second time.

 

“I’m--I’m really gonna do it! I--I got in, I got in!” He dropped the papers to his lap and covered his mouth as tears began to make glittering tracks down his cheeks...and Pete couldn’t take it anymore.

 

“Damn straight you did, baby.” He wrapped his arm around him, pulling his hands down to press a kiss to his lips that was full of smiles and pride. “You’re _so_ goddamn amazing.” Patrick pulled him down on top of him, laughter ringing around them as they both revelled in the shared joy of it. Grinning like the cheshire cat, he pressed kisses to his neck strung between golden smiles and murmured praise, holding him close and feeling the laughter vibrating in his chest like a spring. But then, like he had nothing better to do in the world, Patrick reached down and grabbed his ass with one hand before giving a sinful roll of his hips against him. Unable to help it, Pete moaned into his neck as Patrick’s hand dipped into his sweatpants and he shuddered-- _God_ handjobs shouldn’t feel that _good_. He snaked his own hand into Patrick’s jeans, cursing and laughing all at once as he unbuttoned them, grinning into Patrick’s mouth even as he swallowed his laughing sighs.

 

It was joy--fingers dancing along him even as the silken weight of Patrick’s cock filled his hand perfectly. They giggled and gasped, crying out in ecstasy as they smiled bright and weightless against the other. Patrick was arching up into him, eyes wide in shock and ecstasy as he neared the peak even as Pete held himself from tumbling over. He was murmuring against Patrick’s lips as his hips jerked into his hand, a stream of _I’m so proud of you, you’re so amazing, you’re so gorgeous, you’re going to be the best in the world, my smart husband, so fuckin’ smart, God…_

 

Then Patrick was groaning into the couch cushions as he came, his grip on Pete’s cock tightening spastically as muscles fired to life and then fell slack in no particular order. With a cry that sounded suspiciously like his husband’s name, Pete followed him over--body shuddering as he collapsed on top of him, surrendering to the torrent that burned through him like a hurricane.

 

When his brain stopped firing neurons like firecrackers, he tilted his head up to nuzzle into Patrick’s neck, nose fitting against heaving, sweaty-pale skin. A soft hand carded through his hair--it was longer than it had been since he was 18--and he smiled.

 

“So fuckin’ proud of you.”

 

~//~

 

Saturday found him pulling his truck into the driveway next to Barney’s giant purple suburban--he had argued that it was _maroon_ but Pete would hear none of it. Plus, _Pretty Purple People-Eater_ sounded better. Patrick pulled the tin of cookies from the seat and met him with a smile as they headed to the front door. The buzzer made a sound like a cow mooing and Pete couldn’t hold back a snort as the door swung open and Carlos grinned up at them.

 

“Hey! Uncle Pete! Uncle Patrick, come on in!” He opened the security door and then promptly ran away with the confidence only children have that they’d be dutifully followed by adults. Taking their shoes off in the crowded entry, they wound their way through duffel bags overflowing with junk, a stray dumbbell and a plethora of kids toys to the backyard.

 

“Well look who finally showed up!” Barney grinned from the grill, waving the metal spatula like a weapon. “You’d better have brought beer, loser.”

 

“I know better than to show up empty handed!” Pete set the cardboard case of Blue Moon on the table, scooting it over to make room for Patrick’s cookies and gave him a smile that he returned. It made his heart swell to see it blossom across his lips so easily.

 

 _“Patrick! Sweetie, help me with this?”_ Angela’s voice rang out through the open window and Patrick laughed, squeezing past Roberto as he tried to come outside at the same time before vanishing into the house.

 

“So how’s PD life?” Pete asked, handing Barney an open beer before taking up his customary lounging pose against the side of the house. “Polo as comfy as multicam?”

 

“Better ‘cause I can grow a sick mustache stateside.” He grinned, stroking the thick growth of black hair on his upper lip and shrugged. “Nah, I mean...it’s fuckin’ great, man. I haven’t regretted it for a minute.”

 

“Really?” Pete took a deep pull from his beer and considered his best friend as he flipped the steaks over. “I mean, the whole chill thing is nice for sure but I fucking miss it every day.”

 

“You didn’t have a choice,” Barney shrugged, “so it’s bound to be different. But I mean...yeah. Our anniversary was last week, first one in three years I actually got to spend with her, you know? And I put in for time off for Alfie’s soccer camp and I didn’t have to like...blow someone to get it, and I actually _know_ I’ll be able to be there. So I mean...sure I miss the death and destruction but the payoff is worth it.”

 

Nodding as he considered it, Pete thought about the smile that had steadily lodged itself on Patrick’s face each day when he got home and Pete could wrap him up in a hug. He remembered him murmuring, half-drunk with exhaustion on a Sunday afternoon as he burrowed deeper onto Pete’s lap _I love having you here_ as he drifted to sleep. He thought about how good it felt to actually sleep through the night for the first time in years...and part of him said it was worth it. He couldn’t lie to himself and say he wouldn't go back if he could...that he wouldn't wind back the clock and not get in that humvee. But right along that feeling of loss was the peace that seemed to have settled into his bones in the last months, as some of the vigilance started to leak away.

 

“Drunk already?” Barney clinked their bottles together and he looked up to see a playful grin married with the concern only his best friend was allowed to show. “You okay, chico?”

 

“Yeah.” He sighed and shrugged. “It’s just weird, you know?”

 

“You should find something to do, man. Get a job, volunteer, find a hobby, I dunno. Have you thought about basket-weaving?” He snorted and Pete tried to aim a kick at his shins for that.

 

“I think crochet is more up my alley, _thank you.”_ They laughed and it felt _good_ \--it felt normal like it was just another day with his best friend, like the thousands they had shared all over the world and in some of the most austere conditions. Barney, sunshine, meat on a grill...the good life.

 

“--and it should only be about two years, unless I have to repeat something. It’s crazy how a bachelor’s is four years and a master’s is only two.” Patrick was explaining to Angela loudly as they carried a steaming pot of _something_ out of the kitchen, with stacks of tortillas and several jars of homemade salsa. The kids ran out behind them, yammering and clammering for food, Alfie coming over to jump up and try to climb up Pete like a monkey.

 

“If you burn those steaks because you’re yammering like a pair of _abuelitas_ , I’ll kill you.” Angela glared at her husband as she set down the food. “That marinade is magic and if I can’t taste it through the charcoal--”

 

“Jesus, woman, I know how to handle my meat! Just ask Pete, he knows!” Barney winked and Pete rolled his eyes, laughing at the blush spreading over Patrick’s cheeks as Angela just smirked and headed back inside.

 

“Explains so much.” She shot back just as the sliding glass door slid shut, blowing a kiss through red lips at Barney’s raised middle finger. He mumbled something under his breath as he flipped the steaks, poking them with the tongs to test their doneness. Alfie looked at his father from atop Pete’s shoulders and cocked his head inquisitively.

 

“Papi, what does mama mean about the meat? Does Uncle Pete eat more steak than you do?” Patrick let out an aborted snort, biting his lip at the _adult_ answer that was floating in all of their heads before Barney threw his head back and laughed--loud and uninhibited.

 

“You bet he does, buddy. Uncle Pete eats more meat than anyone I’ve ever seen!” Pete gave his best friend the stink-eye, but he could feel himself vibrating with laughter as they all knew _exactly_ what they actually meant.

 

Then Angela brought out the final platter, with Carlos trotting behind dutifully with a stack of paper plates, and lunch began. It was chaos and full of that indescribable feeling of _family._ It was Angela smacking the hands of her brood as they squabbled over who got what first, Patrick trying to help little Roberto stuff bits of tortilla into his mouth and Pete slicing the steaks as Barney pulled them off the grill...all punctuated by childish laughter and Barney’s loud guffaw.

 

Stuffing meat in his mouth at a sufficient pace to satisfy Alfie, Pete’s eyes came to rest on his husband. He saw the delighted smile on his face whenever Roberto successfully navigated a piece of tortilla into his mouth, watched the tender kisses Patrick would plant on his chubby cheeks, and how he almost naturally kept the baby’s wandering hands from his plate even while talking to Angela about the school’s proposed curriculum changes for third graders. He was so good at it, Pete realized, though part of him realized he’d always known that fact. The image of Patrick holding little baby, feeding him smashed apples in the morning with his hair still fluffed up in his normal bedhead, or pushing a little girl on the swings at the park he ran by every morning...it flashed through his mind and he couldn’t help but wonder what that would be like. To look down at a sleeping child in a crib and know they were in it together...to go to soccer games and have birthday parties with Barney’s kids with their _own_ _child_ in tow. It would be wonderful.

 

But then he shook that away as Alfie tipped his chair back from too much vigorous rocking and started to cry and Angela swept him into an embrace. He wasn’t ready to be that--to be the one that a child ran to in fear or pain, to be the one that was _responsible_ for an entire human being...maybe someday.

 

~//~

 

“So how’s this week been?” Jenna asked, clicking her pen before setting it down next to her notepad, cool grey eyes a strange mix of comfort and coolness.

 

“Good, actually.” He scratched at an itch on his heel and selected one of the squishy squeeze balls from the bowl on her desk. “Patrick got accepted into Grad school and we went to a barbeque at my friend Barney’s house.”

 

Shifting in her seat, Jenna pulled her skirt a bit until it was no longer bunched around her hip. “That’s amazing news! It’s a big change too--how are you feeling about that?”

 

“Awesome.” He squeezed the ball more out of habit than from actual need...but if anything, therapy had taught him the value of habit and consistency. “He deserves it and I’m like, so proud of him. You know when you see someone doing something and you’re like _wow that’s like THE PERFECT THING for them?_ That’s kinda how I feel when I think about it...I just wish I had something like that, you know?”

 

“Sure.” Jenna nodded sagely before cocking her head to the side in consideration. “Let’s talk about that for a minute then-- _do_ you have goals for the future? Let’s start small--where would you like to see yourself in a year?”

 

 _Open, close. Open, close_ went his hand on the ball as he thought it through... _another_ new habit he had developed since starting with Jenna. “Well...no offense, but not seeing you so regularly.” They grinned and he pressed on. “I’m kinda afraid to hope that things will be like...totally back to normal. I’d like to not be having panic attacks or night terrors anymore, but I don’t know that that’s realistic.” _Open, close. Open, close_. “I’d like to have a purpose. I’d like to be doing something that I believe in, you know? I want to have done something really neat for Patrick. I’d like to still be friends with all of my team.” He shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

 

“Those are all really good goals, Pete.” Jenna smiled as she finished taking her odd, shorthand notes and looked back at him. “What of those do you think is the most easily attainable right now that we could maybe make a plan to work towards?”

 

“Not the whole _having a purpose_ thing.” He snorted and started spinning the ball between two fingers.

 

“How about doing something for Patrick, what do you mean by that?” She looked at him, and he reflected Jenna had the uncanny ability to _look_ without _staring._ He was infinitely grateful for that fact.

 

“I guess I just....we never really had _time_ , you know? We were always seeing each other between deployments or duty…’ships passing in the night’ kinda thing? That was normal for so long. Then he came out and he was _there_ but I was always deploying and we couldn’t really...the whole _don’t ask, don’t tell_ thing, you know? So when we finally got married it was awesome and…” He stopped, brows furrowing at his hands as he thought. “You know, we never even had a honeymoon. We always said we were going to go somewhere nice, I remember thinking about taking him somewhere when we got home from that last deployment, before Chase died.” The words no longer stuck in his throat, tears no longer prickled at his eyes when he said them...but he wondered if the twisting ache under his heart that would throb to life for a second or two would ever go away.

 

“Do you think that’s something concrete you could work into your one-year goals?” Jenna asked gently, no doubt aware of the toll it cost to say those words.

 

“Yeah.” He looked at her before giving a shrug. “It actually...that makes me feel really positive. Like, you know how we talked about how I feel like I want to pay him back…” He waved his hand vaguely, encompassing the sessions upon sessions working through his guilt and grief over what he’d done to his husband. “This feels like it could be a really good start.”

 

“I agree.” Jenna handed him a blank piece of paper and a pen. “Let’s write these things down, okay? Emmit Smith said ‘dreams are only dreams until you write them down, then they become goals.’”

 

Hunching over the side table, Pete wrote them down, leaving room between each to allow for elaboration. By the time he left, he had a list that made him feel like the future was pretty bright, actually, and he was vibrating in excitement.

 

It was time to plan a honeymoon.

  
  



	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven years later...it's time for a honeymoon :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY FRIENDS!!! I am SO SORRY for basically dropping off the face of the planet. I promise I won't ever abandon this story (or any of my other WIP's *hides face in shame*) but it's been quite a few months. I've been traveling basically two weeks out of each month and it's just been totally insane. But I made a page to track how often I (don't) update in my bullet journal, so I'm hoping that will help keep me accountable! 
> 
> I'm breaking my rule of not posting things after 11pm...but I've been sitting on the first half of this chapter for MONTHS and I just feel awful. So hopefully it's not completely awful, otherwise...I suppose we'll see when I wake up if I hate myself! But thank you for still reading and being the best people in the world...and I hope you enjoy!

 

His feet were  _ hot _ and his arms were cold...and he couldn’t help but pout inside his head a bit at that. A brilliant idea hit him then—move his feet—and he shifted a bit to his side and bent his knees, pulling his legs a bit higher.  _ Ahhh…that’s better _ , he thought before wondering how he could get his arms warm. 

 

“You okay?” A gentle voice slipped into his disjointed wonderings and he decided it’d be a good plan to try to open his eyes. Blinking, the world resolved into his husband in trunks and a white linen button-up smiling at him from an adjacent lounge chair, book open on his lap. 

 

“...‘M cold.” He whispered, his brain running slow and lazy. But Patrick just reached to the other side of his lounge and grabbed a fluffy white towel, draping it over him and Pete could feel the sunshine it had been warming under seep into him. He sighed as a gentle hand drifted through his hair, closing his eyes to azure water just beyond their little cabana. Patrick’s fingers slipped into his and he grabbed them gently, pulling his hand close to his cheek like a child and drifted back to sleep to the sound of waves crashing against snow-white sand. 

 

~//~ 

 

“I still can’t believe you did this.” 

 

He looked up from where he was contemplating the Oceanside bar menu, debating if being in Maui really meant he should man up and try octopus for the first time. “Huh?” 

 

“I said that I still can’t believe you pulled this whole thing off.” Patrick repeated, taking another sip of his coconut mojito.

 

“But you’re glad I did, right?” Pete gave him his best impression of puppy-dog eyes, despite totally knowing they would work. Patrick nodded, and leaned close to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. 

 

“If I had known you were such a good travel agent, I would’ve made you take me on a honeymoon years ago.” 

 

Pete shrugged with a smile. “Well...you deserve it.” He saw in Patrick’s eyes that he knew what was under those words—whispered apologies that Pete still pressed to the soft skin of Patrick’s neck with his lips on nights when rest evaded him yet again. But he just smiled and ran his thumb over the back of Pete’s hand.

 

Then the bar lit up with the arrival of a large party—all bright sarongs and island-printed shirts. They clustered around the bar and a large woman with a kind smile and long braids pointed at the chair next to them. “This seat taken, honey?” Pete shook his head and she sat down, eyeing them with a lifetime of wisdom. “Now look at you both. Honeymooners, are you?” 

 

He was momentarily surprised, but Patrick smiled next to him and nodded. “Yeah, actually. Seven years late but hey. At least we’re doing it, right?” 

 

“Oh that’s lovely.” She clasped her hands to her chest with a wide smile. “I’m Sandee, and this is my family—“ she waved a hand expansively to encompass the party of nearly twenty. “We come on a vacation together every year and this time it was Maui that won our affections.” She signaled the bartender for a Mai Tai, and then settled her chin on her hand. “Now. The  _ best _ part of these trips is all the people we meet. So tell me  _ all about yourselves.”  _

 

Three hours later and he was nearly through telling  _ The Epic Love Story of Pete and Patrick _ ...and Sandee seemed just as enthralled as when he’d started, though they were both a good degree tipsier. Patrick was still seated next to him, a warm press of thigh and arm, but he was animatedly laughing with Sandee’s cousin Ebony—who he thought was most likely his husband’s new best friend—about their students and lives as teachers. Pete had made it to his breakdown in the PT clinic, and maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the understanding in  _ his _ new best friend’s eyes...but he decided to be honest. “And after that, I just...I knew there was something wrong but I didn’t want it to be me, you know? So I went through the motions but I didn’t like,  _ really  _ try. I thought I was holding it together but really wasn’t, like at all. I was a total dick to Patrick and then one night I...I choked him in my sleep.” He waited for the judgement, for her to say she didn’t want to hear anymore because habout was as a monster. But she didn’t...she cocked her head and made a shooing motion, like she was pushing him towards the finish line, and he couldn’t help it. “Don’t you--aren’t you going to tell me that I’m a horrible person?” 

 

“Honey.” She shifted, re-adjusting her skirt like royalty. “Somehow he’s still sitting here next to you on an island paradise...which says that’s not the end of the story. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn to wait until the end to make any judgements.” 

 

He shrugged at that, tucking it away as wisdom to ponder later, and told the rest--the heartbreak of realizing what he’d done, the total conviction that he’d lost everything. He told her about the long road back--of medications and learning to breathe again, of sleeping on the couch and of the first time Patrick  _ really _ smiled at him. When he had nearly run out of words he reached the end...and he couldn’t help but feel shocked at it all himself; at how far they’d come, at how stupid he had been, at how much better he truly was now than he had been. He shook his head in amazement and met her dark eyes. “I guess...yeah. He deserved something amazing, so I talked to my therapist about goals and this was one of them that was like, actually attainable. Plus I had tons of time to become a total eight-years-late-bridezilla and compulsively plan the whole thing in secret to surprise him. It was awesome.” Taking a long drink of his sixth mojito of the night--damn rum was good--he settled his chin on his hand and regarded his new friend with nervous anticipation. “So? Judgement?” 

 

She just shook her head and took a sip of her own concoction. “I think that’s quite a story, and I thank you for telling it to me. You’ve been through a lot, young man, but you’re on the other side now I think and stronger for it.” Reaching out she took his hand and patted it in a strange cross between motherly and gossiping-girlishness. “And I’m very proud of you.” 

 

He couldn't help the blush that skittered under his skin, though he was grateful nobody probably saw it. The praise was...well, it felt good as he realized they  _ had  _ come a long way. And now they were here. Together. 

 

An hour later, he was concentrating very hard on listening to Sandee’s story about finally getting together with the man she’d been in love with for thirty years. It seemed like the very smallest of proprieties to listen just as she had...but  _ damn _ he was drunk, and  _ damn _ he was sleepy. Patrick laughed at something behind him, body trembling with mirth and he smiled at how much he liked that feeling of him being happy. Sandee’s story drew to an end and as she called Ebony to go to the ladies’ room with her, he felt warm, strong arms wrap around him. “Hey you.” Breath ghosted along his ear and he couldn’t hold back a tiny shiver. “How are you feeling?” 

 

“Good. A bit drunk. You?” He thought he might have slurred his words a bit, but he wasn’t sure yet was fairly certain it didn’t matter. 

 

“A lot bit less drunk, but also good.” Patrick’s arms slipped away as Sandee and Ebony came back and pulled him into a knot of red sarong and matronly wisdom and Pete just concentrated on drinking the cup of water that was suddenly in front of him. A hand wholly unlike his husband’s slipped along his jaw and he looked up to see Sandee smiling at him. 

 

“Now, get yourself to bed young man. We’re going to meet up with you for brunch tomorrow afternoon, I already arranged it with your Patrick.” He nodded and let himself be pulled into a hug that smelled strangely of home before Patrick took over, slipping an arm around his waist with a smile and a chuckle, leading him up to their rooms carefully. 

 

The world had stopped spinning by the time he flopped down on the bed--already turned down by the overly-considerate staff--and considered if he wanted to try to take his tank top off. But then Patrick was there, climbing next to him and sliding gentle hands across his skin and helping him out of his clothes. 

 

A moment later he was naked--nothing new about that--but he was surprised at the press of a very interested cock to his ass, the soft skin of Patrick’s naked hips flush against him. “--You’re...you...I  _ like _ this.” That was the best sentence he could string together, so he just slid his hand along the expanse of skin and he heard his husband’s low chuckle. 

 

“You know what Sandee told me, when she came back from the bathroom?” Patrick murmured against his temple and Pete tried to say something, to express interest in the answer, but it was lost as plush lips pressed a searing kiss to his neck. All he could do was gasp and push into it, shaking his head even as he tried to roll around but was held fast by hands on his hips that pulled him flush against soft, heated skin. “She told me that you were a keeper. That you knew you had messed up but that you were trying harder than anything to make it right, and that it made you worth more than someone who had always been perfect.” He shuddered at the words as they slipped and slid under his skin as Patrick scooted away and turned him around, pulling him nose-to-nose. The world swung and rippled around as the alcohol clouded everything but Patrick, filling his view and his senses as he smiled down at him. “And she said you had a heart of gold and that I should treasure you.” 

 

Pete shuddered at what was in Patrick’s eyes--that carefree love and desire and his brain flashed back for a moment to their first night together ever and the easy way he had turned him into something the consistency of warm chocolate. Then it skipped back to their  _ other _ first night--Patrick’s easy command, his dedication to making him feel loved and safe and the way they had crashed together as he had felt  _ whole _ for the first time in what felt like ages. Like a book’s pages blowing in the wind, his brain flipped over to  _ now _ and he gasped as Patrick’s lips fluttered down to his own, gentle and easy. Long fingers burrowed into his hair and he grabbed back, sliding his own hands along silken skin he knew better than his own and he shuddered with the sudden need to have Patrick closer, closer,  _ closer.  _

 

“ _ Jesus,  _ I love you so much.” He gasped when Patrick pulled away for air, both of their chests heaving as a line of fiery bites was pressed down the column of his throat. “So fucking much.” 

 

“Me too.” Patrick pulled him close, pulled him into a hug that was all fierce, fiery love--suddenly his throbbing cock was less important than the way Patrick was holding onto him like they were being buffeted by strong winds. He pressed a kiss to the stretch of Patrick’s neck his face was blissfully smashed into and he smiled as Patrick shook with it, pulling away with eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness as he whispered, “Can I fuck you? Please? I know you’re drunk but I--I just.” 

 

Nodding, he realized, was a horrible idea as the room tilted, so he settled for murmuring a string of  _ yesyesyesyes _ that had Patrick’s lips tucking into a gentle grin. 

 

“Turn over, sweetheart.” He whispered and as Pete obeyed a cool breeze rushed over his skin that suddenly felt like the surface of the sun. Gentle hands skimmed over his skin and he struggled to find the words as his brain was urging him to just let go and drift with the pleasure. 

 

“The doors--they’re open, I--”

 

“It’s fine.” Patrick shushed him with a gentle hand in his hair, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his spine. “You’ll just have to be a little quieter.” He nipped the skin between his shoulder blades and Pete twitched. “But tomorrow, I’ll shut them.” A warm tongue drifted over the small of his back, hungry and riveting with its insistence. “And you can do anything you want to me. Make me beg, make me scream--” He shook with the thought of it as Patrick’s breath ghosted over the skin of his ass. “--But tonight, I want you so fucking bad.” 

 

All thought of Patrick shuddering beneath him with his head thrown back and sweat sticking his hair to his forehead vanished from his mind as Patrick began to lick broad strokes over his hole, holding his cheeks apart and feathering at him with deliberate precision. He moaned into the pillow, burying his face and crying out as teeth sunk into the place where his ass met his leg--a secret spot that Patrick knew and never failed to remember--before lashing at him, all pointed tongue and torturously perfect softness. Time floated around him as the room seemed to pulse with each throb of his cock, with each stroke of Patrick’s fingers as he worked him open gently but with bright insistence that had him shuddering and pleading for  _ more, please God anything-- _

 

A hand on his hip and another on his knee had him pushing up, crawling to his knees as Patrick tucked his legs beneath him, blanketing him with his body as he reached for the lube in the nightstand drawer.  He was drifting, the only points of surety and pressure the bends of his knees as his weight anchored him down...and then there was the blunt press against him and he pushed back, begging wordlessly in his sudden need to be filled and contained, the aching pressure to give way to starlight ecstasy. 

 

It hurt--anyone who said it didn’t for a split-second was a liar--but as he floated loose-limbed and wanting, it reminded him of the way teeth felt when they met flesh...the sting that preceded a perfect thrumming blossom of roaring bliss. Gentle hands soothed at his hip, at his side, and he heard hushed words that bobbed above the surface of the roar of alcohol-tinged blood in his ears. Whispers of love and praise that made him melt, that made him mumble and push back, begging for more even as it was given with tender care. When he was seated flush against soft thighs, Patrick pulled him up with gentle insistence until he was pressed against his chest, head lolling on his shoulder. For a long time their hips stayed still, buried and pressed together as close as they could be as Patrick ran gossamer-soft fingers across his chest, over his thighs--holding him close and bathing him in tenderness that he felt like he could drown in. He whispered in his ear as he stroked through his hair---curled and soft from the island sun--how beautiful he was, how much he was loved, what a fucking good boy he was and that he’d never leave, that he’d always be right there with him forever. He shook with it, trembling under the heat of his hands and his love as he felt like surely, surely  _ this _ was the moment he’d split apart at the seams from  _ loving Patrick.  _

 

But then gently, like the tide that ebbed and swelled just beyond their balcony, Patrick began to move, to roll his hips and Pete gasped as it rippled through him. Pete shuddered and moaned as he was driven forward by the motion of his hips only to be held in place by strong, tender arms. He felt contained, buttressed and trellised by  _ love,  _ by  _ his love _ ...by  _ Patrick.  _

 

Words were tumbling from his lips--he was fairly sure they were just babbled variations on the theme of  _ I love you  _ and  _ please  _ and  _ more, God, please more I need you.  _ He felt the sudden need to  _ grab on _ , to take hold so he wouldn’t be blown away in the storm he could feel brewing in his belly, in the rush of Patrick’s breath against his neck, in the way his hips seemed to crash against him like a stormtide. Reaching up, elbows pointed every which way he scrabbled for purchase, one hand resting against the upswell of his head while the other felt the way the muscles flexed under Patrick’s skin as he gripped tight. He gasped, mouth open as the room spun and dipped but it didn’t matter,  _ nothing  _ mattered other than the whisper of love in his ear, the hand that dropped down to stroke his cock in perfect rhythm with the way Patrick was lighting him up from the inside...like a match struck against the tinder. Once, twice...and then the flame flared to life, his body shuddering with release as he came as Patrick’s body moved his own like an endless wave, never cresting but seeming to carry on forever with nothing but momentum, but perfection, but love and ecstasy. 

 

He might have felt tears on his cheeks, he might have clung like a child as Patrick lowered him to the sheets, he might have gasped out declarations of love into the night air that flowed over them, heady with the scent of plumerias. But none of it mattered...all that did was the way he was held close, the whisper of words that he couldn’t quite piece together delivered by the voice that meant safety, the press of lips to his temple.

 

Cocooned in his whole world, Pete slept. 

 

~//~

 

There was a bird chirping somewhere--not the normal mournful cooing of the pigeons that seemed to love the eaves by their room back home, but something trilling and strange--and it pulled him out of sleep. He lifted his head and immediately regretted the motion as the room tilted and spun. But after a moment, it seemed to settle into place and he cracked his eyes open again to get another glimpse of what lay just outside the open balcony doors. 

 

The sun was just beginning to crest over the distant horizon, the ocean seeming to stretch on forever to meet a riot of orange and pink. The air was cool and still and he gasped as the first rays of light burst from the edge of the world. 

 

“Babe.” He whisper-shouted, shaking Patrick gently from where he was curled around him. “Babe look! The sunrise! It’s so fucking beautiful.” Patrick grumbled and pushed his face deeper into the pillow, but this was a fucking  _ sunrise on Maui _ , and so he shook again, pressing gentle kisses to his cheeks. “ _ Babe _ , look at it, it’s  _ amazing _ .” 

 

Patrick lifted his head and squinted at the balcony, face scrunched up like he was in pain. “--’S nice.” He rasped before dropping his head back and pulling up the covers, burrowing into his side with a huff and a mumble of dislike. Pete laughed to himself--without his glasses Patrick wouldn’t have seen anything beyond a smear of pink and grey, he knew--but he supposed that was the best possible outcome of trying to wake a Vacationing Patrick to see the sunrise. 

 

He looked over to the nightstand where his phone was plugged in--Patrick was seriously the fucking best--and spied his water bottle. Thanking Past Pete Wentz for his brilliance and foresight, he grabbed both and took a long drink of what was probably the best water he’d ever had. _ Rum is a bitch _ , he thought distantly as he took another pull, feeling the headache easing just a bit as he squinted at his phone. It took a few tries to get the sunset framed perfectly on the small screen...but finally he captured the moment in ten megapixel color and smiled. At least he’d get to show Patrick later. 

 

Glancing down, he smoothed the hair back from Patrick’s forehead and smiled at the way he scrunched his nose for just a moment. An inspired thought struck him and he shimmied down to lay back on the pillows, pulling Patrick close until he was tucked onto his chest and his mouth was hanging just the tiniest bit open. Holding the phone above his head, he took several selfies and felt his heart try--once again--to burst at the way Patrick looked. Lips parted and pink, lashes fanning over his cheeks and the ruddy glow of the early sun painting him with a glow of gold, it was everything he’d dreamed of all those long, lonely nights in Afghanistan and Iraq. 

 

For a split second, his brain reminded him how close he’d come to losing it all...but he pushed that away as he pulled Patrick just a little closer and decided not to dwell on that. Instead, he tucked his free arm behind his head and told himself to just  _ relax _ , feathering his fingers through Patrick’s hair as he watched the sun rise. Calm blanketed him like a second lover, and he let out a breath that felt like  _ peace. _

  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...BBB. Just blame BBB. I'm so sorry. 20 million years later...I'm back! Thank you for reading, if anyone's still out there *shouts into the echoing internet* I love you guys!!

 

 

 

The bright California sunlight was streaming through the curtains and Patrick was warm--it was a good morning, Pete thought. Flopping over to his back, he tucked his hand behind his head and blinked his eyes open. He considered the way the sunlight made patterns over the popcorn ceiling and thought... 

 

_ Patrick’s last day of school had been the previous Friday...well, his last day of school as the teacher his brain corrected. When fall came to southern California, Patrick would be the student starting Grad School, not the cardigan’d herder of twenty-four five-year-olds. His going away party had been a thing to behold--the staff had gotten all of the children to draw him pictures for an album, and had framed a group photo of all the teachers that they had taken at the beginning of the school year. The best part of the party, though, had unequivocally been when little Carl’s Mom had pulled them both outside, to a bench next to the deserted playground. Carl had smiled bright when Patrick sat down, handing him a card only to help him excitedly tear the envelope off and Pete had heard Patrick’s stifled sniffle when Little Carl’s high, soft voice rang out, reading what he had written on the inside.  _

 

_ “Dear...Teacher...Patrick. You are the….best...teacher ever….I will...miss you. But...I am glad you...are...going to school...like me. Love, Carl.” There were definitely tears in all the adult’s eyes as Carl threw his arms around Patrick, giving him the first hug Pete had ever seen him allow. Patrick was murmuring something soft in Carl’s white-blonde hair, and when he pulled away, the little boy just nodded. “I know,” he said imperiously before hopping off the bench to stand next to his mother, taking her hand and tugging her away. Just before they left the playground, he turned and waved at Pete, who returned it with a smile.  _

 

_ Tears were running liberally down Patrick’s cheeks as he waved at Little Carl as well, and Pete wrapped his arms around his shoulders from behind, nuzzling into his neck as Patrick took a shaky sigh. “What did you say to him?” He asked and Patrick let out a huffing laugh.  _

 

_ “That he was my favorite person I’d ever taught.” _

 

_ Pete put on a shocked face as he let go and Patrick stood, wiping his eyes around a smile that would have given a solar flare a run for its money. “Teacher Patrick! You aren’t supposed to have favorites!”  _

 

_ “Screw it.” Patrick shrugged as they began to walk back towards the noise of the party. “I’m not a teacher anymore, and he’s one-of-a-kind.”  _

 

_ “You’ll ALWAYS be a teacher, babe.” Pete bumped his hip against Patrick’s, and he just smiled.  _

 

Now though...summer was coming to a close. Patrick’s orientation was in two weeks, and Pete had been compiling a mental list of all the things they needed to  _ do. _

 

Patrick rolled over and sighed in his sleep, unconsciously grinding his hard-on against Pete’s ass, and he grinned. 

 

The list could wait. 

 

~//~

 

_ “Seriously.”  _ Patrick groused as the doors slid open to reveal dual escalators and brightly-lit arrows herding them upwards. “We could have just gone to Target. I’m  _ sure _ they have perfectly fine desks there and it wouldn’t all be electric yellow.” They screeched to a halt as two little girls, both under four, chased each other towards the sign that Pete could only assume meant “Childcare” in Swedish. Something familiar twinged under his heart--a yearning that he just kept pushing down under a list of excuses and reasons a mile long--but it was still there. He shook it off as they stepped onto the escalator and felt a grin stretch across his face as they stepped into a wonderland. 

 

“Babe, Target doesn’t have the wonders of Swedish engineering working for you. We’re going to find you  _ the perfect desk _ so you can fuckin’  _ crush _ school.” 

 

Patrick murmured something about what  _ else _ could be crushed, but Pete ignored it as a copper-colored lamp caught his attention. They wound through the mini-houses, each set up to show you how perfect your life could look too if you bought a  _ Svedrig  _ and an  _ Upsal _ and a  _ Llandrala _ . But after exhaustive testing, discussing, and considering, Patrick furrowed his brows together for the last time and nodded. “ _ Yep.  _ This one. This is the one.” 

 

“ _ Hemnes _ with a  _ Micke  _ add-on.” Pete scribbled that down on the little strip of paper that had been handed to them by a bored-looking employee with pink hair. He stuck the tiny pencil back behind his ear and nodded. “Okay. Now we just have to pick out a chair and a bookshelf...and then it’s onto  _ organizational items.”  _

 

“I swear to fucking God you’re enjoying this too much.” Patrick groused as he rose...but after what seemed like just a short while to Pete (though his husband grumbled that they had been shopping for  _ an actual century) _ they were pushing the cart with wheels that each seemed to want to go a different direction out to Patrick’s hatchback and loading them in. 

 

“I don’t know when the hell I’m going to get this all put together. I have like...fourteen different meetings with people at the college all week, and I  _ still  _ need to get my books and…” Patrick mumbled as he put the key in the ignition, but Pete just shook his head. 

 

“Babe. Relax...it’ll be fine. I’ll get cracking on it tomorrow, have it all put together by the time you get home and you can organize it all however you want.”

 

~//~

 

It had all been going so  _ well _ , Pete thought gloomily as he stared at the chaos around him, smooth as butter before it all fell apart. 

 

He had woken up to an empty bed, hand curling into sheets devoid of another body and for a moment he had felt a bit disoriented. There was that particular feeling winding through him as he cracked open his eyes and stretched, though, that usually accompanied a  _ really _ good night’s sleep. Sure enough, the clock on the nightstand said it was 9:30am and he felt his back pop as he arched it and curled his toes--that’s why he felt amazing, he’d slept in. 

 

A shockingly pink post-it note was on Patrick’s pillow and he snatched at it as he rolled over and bunched it under his face, breathing in the smell of his favorite person with a smile as he read.

 

_ Didn’t want to wake you since you looked like you were sleeping goodl. See you when I get home love you --xo _

 

He hadn’t been able to hold back the smile as he imagined Patrick peeling the note free from the stack in his bookbag, writing it with one of the five hundred blue pens he had, and settling it down before leaving in a flurry of untied shoes and crooked glasses for his day of preparation. Flicking open his phone, he had looked at their shared calendar and noted his husband had a busy day: meeting with the VA rep, his first session with his counselor/academic mentor, as well as an eye appointment. Busy day in the life of Patrick Stumph. 

 

But now here he was, surrounded by the detritus of his attempt to put together the  _ Hemnes _ desk, the  _ Billy _ bookcase and the  _ Millberget _ chair all at once. Well, not  _ all  _ at once....more like he couldn’t figure out the desk, so he decided to try his luck on the bookcase. The chair though...he was pretty close to figuring it out, he was pretty sure. 

 

Ten minutes later, and all the rollers were in and he cautiously sat down...and it held. He swung his feet up and spun himself in a celebratory circle. One down, two to go. But he decided it was time for a quick break and shuffled into the kitchen, rolling the stiffness from his neck from hunching over for hours. Peering into the fridge, he pulled out the pitcher of lemonade Patrick had made the day before and poured himself a glass. It felt good as it slid down his throat ice-cold and perfectly refreshing--nearly as good as a Rip-It when they got them going through one of the bigger middle eastern bases on the way home from a deployment, the kind with  _ real _ refrigeration. Nothing quite tasted as good as one of those shitty, shitty energy drinks, he laughed to himself. Maybe they really did have cocaine in them. 

 

He heard Patrick’s keys in the lock and felt himself slump as he realized that he had very little to show for all his labor. It seemed that a lack of a desk would be the least of the contributing factors for the storm-clouds painting Patrick’s face as he dropped his things on the counter and took the glass from him with a grunt. 

 

“Happy Thursday?” He tried curiously as Patrick drank down half his lemonade, before handing him back the glass and slumping onto one of the bar stools. Taking off his glasses, Patrick wiped his hand over his face and let out a sigh. 

 

“Sorry, I forgot my water bottle so I was dying of thirst.” He replaced his glasses and gave Pete a beaten smile. “It’s been a hell of a day, I had a meeting with the section chair I forgot about and they had to dilate my eyes so I’ve got a killer headache. How are you?”

 

“Oh, fine, I--” Pete started to tell him about the disaster...but realized Patrick would quickly find out himself as he rounded the corner into the living room, toeing off his shoes and kicking them in the vague direction of the hall. “So, about your desk…”

 

“Why does it look like someone murdered a furniture factory in here?” Patrick asked as he stopped so quickly that Pete almost ran into him. There was a look on his face Pete was pretty sure could be quantified as  _ the stink eye _ , but he just put on his best puppy eyes in response. 

 

“So...it turns out that the screws  _ aren’t _ interchangeable…” He told Patrick the Sad Saga of Furniture Assembly as he sat down on his chair, spinning and rocking back to test it out, looking like a king surveying a battlefield of dismembered desk parts, and there was a smirk on his face once he came to the end….admitting he wasn’t sure which screw was “B” anymore and which was “D.”

 

“Told you we should have gone to Target.” 

 

“Whatever…” 

 

The rest of the evening was full of Patrick on the couch nursing his headache while still trying to direct the assembly. Half the time, his “advice” ended up in Pete having to take it all apart...but they teased between laughing arguments about which screw  _ really _ was the one in the picture...and by the time the sun had set and they had finished the chinese takeout Pete had ordered from their favorite place (that gave you two extra egg rolls if you bought more than three entrees) it was done. Then came the momentous task of getting it all down the hall and into the guest room that Patrick was turning into his study room. But with several yelps, calls to “pivot,  _ pivot!” _ and much huffing later, they had it all settled and situated, and Pete couldn't help but grin. 

 

“Ready to go back to school, Staff Sergeant?” 

 

Patrick had snorted at that, but there had been a smile on his lips as he nodded and turned off the light...along with something he couldn't quite identify. “Can’t really say no, can I? I mean, I have a  _ desk _ , that’s about as real as it gets.” 

 

A brilliantly exciting thought struck Pete as they headed up to bed. “Oh my gosh,  _ babe _ , tomorrow we should go shopping for  _ school supplies!” _

. 

Patrick was not as enthused as he he should have been in Pete’s opinion as they brushed their teeth and got ready for bed, Pete shaking his nightly pills into his hand absently and swallowing them with barely a grimace. But when Patrick turned the light off and climbed on top of him, letting his weight settle down on Pete’s hips with delicious intent, Pete decided they could discuss college versus wide ruled in the morning. 

 

_ Morning _ , however, came much earlier than he thought. Something interrupted his dream of running down along the beach with a bulldog on a leash, looking for a recycling container of all things. He stirred when he realized it  _ wasn’t _ the swingset making the noise as he ran past in his dream, it was  _ real _ . Opening his eyes, he blinked twice and waited for the sound again. 

 

“No--no don’t. There’s, there’s a kid--I saw him. He went--goddammit,  _ stop it _ , call it off, it’s not--”

 

“Patrick.” He shook his husband gently, noting that his muscles were locked taut and his hands were bunched into fists. “Babe, wake up.”

 

“Damage estimate….smoke is too thick...vehicles incoming, we  _ can’t _ fire again you fucking--”

 

“ _ Babe _ , it’s okay, wake up, it’s-- _ ”  _ Pete shook him harder, taking his head between his hands to slow the way he was thrashing it against the pillow. Blue eyes snapped open and Patrick took a deep, gasping breath and looked up at him with confused eyes full of pain. 

 

“Pete?” 

 

He just nodded, unsure, unsure of so many things, of what to say, of what was even going on....Patrick had never done anything but sleep like the dead before. Nightmares were his specialty, after all. But the choice was taken from him as Patrick pushed out of his grip with a muffled noise that sounded like a sob, rolling over to sit on the edge of the bed with his head hung low. Pete reached out and then pulled his hand back, not sure if he should touch. But then he realized Patrick’s shoulders were shaking silently and his heart took over, pulling his crying husband close and cradling him to his chest as he laid them both back down. He made soothing noises, silly statements of  _ it’s okay _ and  _ I’m here _ and things that he remembered Patrick saying to him a hundred times before and just held him. Patrick pressed his face into Pete’s chest, silent tears shaking him as he shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like apologies muddled with sobs. 

 

“I’m sorry--I’m sorry I woke you.” He finally murmured still clutching Pete close and the stupidity of  _ that _ statement struck him smack between the eyes. Patrick, apologizing to him? For being  _ upset _ . He felt like smacking him on the forehead if he wasn’t wholly concerned with his uncharacteristic dream instead, but settled for shaking his head and pressing a kiss to his tousled hair. 

 

“You’re really apologizing for waking me? After everything?” He couldn’t help the small, incredulous chuckle as he soothed his fingers down between Patrick’s shoulder blades. “You’re ridiculous.” 

 

Patrick didn’t say anything, just nestled further into his arms and Pete held him, trying to keep his mind from racing too far ahead and panicking about what could been troubling him so much...but something told him to wait. Jenna’s grey eyes and unhurried stare flashed to him, and he decided to let Patrick tell him, in his own time. Being there was enough. 

 

“I...was dreaming.” Patrick whispered into the still night, sweaty hand curling around Pete’s hip. “About this...raid. We were the overwatch and...it went bad.” 

 

“Where were you?” Pete whispered, trying to remember the way Jenna would ask him questions that didn’t allow for simple yes-or-no answers, but Patrick shook his head. 

 

“I can’t--I can’t tell you? It’s classified and-- _ fuck _ I wish I could tell you.” He sniffled again and Pete pushed onto his elbow, pressing kisses to his cheeks and wiping away the tears as best he could. 

 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I get it. You--can you tell me what’s bothering you? You don’t have to tell me any details.” 

 

“I--” Patrick started, before scrubbing at his eyes fiercely. “There was a kid. We all missed him and...by the time we saw him, it was too late. And then a bunch of our guys got hurt and...it was just a mess. The whole thing was a mess and everyone lost.” 

 

Thinking back to what felt like a lifetime ago to Patrick in camo with a headset on, directing their ops from behind his bank of computer monitors, Pete considered. Patrick’s work had always been secret...but that had never felt like an obstacle until now. He had his world, Pete had his own and they both respected each other’s place in the cogs of war. But now...now their lives were tangled and twined and it seemed the past had come back to haunt them both. “I’m sure you did your best, babe.” That was all he could think to say, all he could imagine might help, but Patrick didn’t smile or nod. His brow creased in thought and he traced a pattern against Pete’s skin. 

 

“Did I?” 

 

The question startled him and he opened his mouth to fire back with something defending Patrick’s honor and judgement...but then closed his mouth. What would Jenna say? “I think...you can’t go back and change it. And you’re the most detailed person I’ve ever met--you never miss a thing, even if it’s just remembering if we’re out of toilet paper or paper towels when we go to costco. So...yeah, no matter what happened, you were probably the best person to be there running it. Maybe more people would have died if it wasn’t for you.” 

 

“There’s no way to  _ know _ that.” Patrick gritted out, looking like he was about to either cry again or push Pete away. 

 

“No, but...I know you. And I know you never do anything halfway.” 

 

The furrow was still there over Patrick’s brow...but he just stared at Pete’s chest, no doubt seeing landscapes and scenes in his mind that he couldn't talk about, couldn't speak of to anyone. Pete didn’t know what to say, if he had said something  _ right _ or had just made more of a mess of it...but finally Patrick nodded, like he had worked a puzzle out in his head. 

 

“Thanks.” 

 

Something like shock wound its way through his brain as he laid back down--he had actually  _ helped _ . It was novel and it felt  _ amazing _ , he realized as he pulled the covers back up over them both and they settled back in...but something gnawed at him. 

 

“Why...why do you think it came up? Why now?” 

 

Patrick shrugged, voice still clear and tinged with guilt. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the...going back to school. Messing with the routine I’ve had since I got out, you know? Like it’s almost like a gap where it could squeeze in.” 

 

That made as much sense as anything did, and Pete nodded to himself as they both tried to go back to sleep.  _ Change _ , he mused _ , it’s the only sure thing _ . 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends!! So...this chapter is entirely due to the lovely @shattered_mirrors_and_lace and I being in New Orleans for the last stop in the MANIA tour! We've been eating amazing food, drinking way too much alcohol, and brainstorming. I've been in such a slump lately, and she's helped me out of it! So huge thanks to you, my dear, and to all the rest of you lovely folks, thank you for sticking with me! More to come soon!

 

 

 

_It’s been a year since my last day in the Navy--pretty crazy. It definitely doesn’t feel like that, at all. It feels like yesterday I was being a total fucking retard and pretending I was fine and hurting everyone around me. But hey...like they say, can’t fix the past, just the future._

 

_Jenna wanted me to write some sort of recap of the last six months. She says it’s really important to look back on where you’ve come from, see how far it is and be proud. Not sure that I really have a lot to be proud of, but here goes._

 

_So Patrick’s back in school--he’s just about done with his first semester. I’m so proud of him, even when he’s grumpy and stressed and won’t have sex with me because he’s trying to finish some huge project haha. It’s so cool to see him doing something that suits him so much, you know? Seeing him with little Carl, the way he just somehow knew what he needed and how to adapt to his moods...it’s amazing. (Carl starts 2nd grade next year, btw. His mom still sends us pics and updates. You’d think he was Patrick’s prize student, the way he dotes. It’s crazy awesome)._

 

_I’ve started going to a veterans support group...tomorrow will be my third meeting. I really wasn’t into it at first, I think I almost needed a clean break, you know? But now, I miss it, I miss when they guys are deployed and I don’t have anyone to talk to who *gets it* other than Patrick. But I didn’t want to go to one with like...guys who had their legs blown up. I don’t think I could open my mouth about my brain exploding while they’re sitting there with half a dick, or something. But Demetrius told me about this one just for us poor souls with PTSD...and yeah, I figured I’d try? It was weird at first, but also really cool. There was a guy who flew one of those drones, and he was doing overwatch of a patrol? Turns out his best friend was part of the patrol and he watched him get blown up by an IED in high-def. He kept saying he couldn't look away and...fuck. I can’t imagine. I talked to Patrick about it and he said that was really common, that kinda thing. His eyes got really sad and it made me wonder what else he’s seen that he can’t tell me._

 

 _I’m working part time at that Orange Theory gym place downtown. I started working out there (nothing too nuts) and I met this really neat guy named Andy? They were doing a six-week class to get your Personal Trainer certification and I decided to do it. Why not? It’s actually been really cool. I only do it three days a week, but it’s been so amazing to help people who have_ *no* _idea how to work out get into shape. I had this mom come in, and you could tell she was super uncomfortable? She had just had her second kid and she told me she had been really unhappy, bordering on suicidal because she couldn’t get her body back to how she looked before having kids. I couldn’t believe she was brave enough to open up like that, but it’s been like the most rewarding thing ever helping her. She has this crazy competitive streak, so if I tell her to do ten of something, she does twelve! But she’s dropped twenty pounds already and man, her smile is fantastic. She told me last friday she’s realized it isn’t about looking hot for other people, it’s about her feeling comfortable, and that she’s starting to get there. I feel kinda like a superhero, not gonna lie. I mean, I don’t do a lot...all I do is help people know what to do and like...encourage them? But apparently I don’t suck at it, and it’s a really rad feeling. I’m never going to be a CrossFit junkie like Andy, but hey...different strokes for different folks._

 

_I feel like we’ve found a good mix of meds. Either that or it’s kinda just...I know how to handle things better now? But I have a lot fewer panic attacks now--last week I think I only had like...four the whole week. That’s...huh. I mean, I remember when I first started this whole thing, it was like four a day was a good day. Neat. I’m on a super low dose of Ambien now, and I only take it when I need it, which Jenna says is a good sign that I’m getting to know my own body enough to know when I need it, and when I don’t._

 

_Like...I guess the only big flashing thing in my head is...I don’t know what I want to *do.* Like retired life is amazing, don’t get me wrong. We’re doing fine financially so it’s not like I *need* to drop everything and go work a job I hate because we’re going to be homeless otherwise. But it’s still just that nagging feeling. I never imagined I’d do anything else but be a SEAL since I joined, you know? I don’t even remember what crazy career plans I had in high school. Probably to be in a band or go to the moon, something like that. But now, it’s really crazy that the thing I’m good at, the thing I’ve done for my entire adult life, I can’t do now. Sometimes I get...angry isn’t the right word at all. Jealous? That’s probably closer. But I see Patrick like totally knowing what he wants to do and being so fucking good at it, and I just...don’t know. I wish I knew what I was supposed to do._

 

_That’s really the only big question mark in my life right now. Otherwise, things are fantastic, and I really can’t complain. When I look back, I still wish I was a SEAL. Barney says he doesn’t miss it at all, but I do...but I wouldn’t change it. I was so messed up, I know that now, I can feel the difference in my head. I never saw how it was all building up in me, you know? But now that I’m on the other side? I wouldn't go back. Not saying I’m perfect or I’ve arrived at some Zen shit but I know at least how it feels to sleep all through the night. Plus I...God. I think how close I came to losing Patrick because I was being a self-righteous dickhead and I still can’t believe how lucky I am. Lucky that he didn’t leave, lucky that he gave me another chance. I think I’m doing a pretty good job of making it worth it, not that it’s a competition...but I’m trying to be the husband he deserves._

 

_Here’s to a year! Who knows what craziness will be here next year this time!_

 

_\--Pete_

 

_~//~_

 

Parking in the driveway of the neat white-painted stucco of the cookie-cutter base houses, Pete cut the engine and shut the door quietly, Kelsea’s text of _don’t ring the doorbell just come in and pls be quiet it took forever to get the kid asleep!_ Fresh in his mind.

 

He toed his shoes off in the entryway and turned the corner to see Kelsea sitting on the couch with her feet on the coffee table, looking harried and exhausted.

 

“I swear to God I’m going to kill Kyle for doing this to me again.” She pointed at her very-pregnant belly and ran a hand through her hair. “And he isn’t even here for me to order around.”

 

He snickered, knowing that Long would crawl on the floor like a dog if Kelsea told him to from stories told around the backyard firepit on pre-deployment sendoffs. But he shrugged and held his hands out in surrender. “Well, just consider me a shitty second substitute. What should we do first?”

 

“The crib. I can’t sit on the floor to put it together.” She held her hands out for Pete to help pull her off the couch. “I mean, I can sit on the floor, but then I’d never be able to get up.”

 

They tiptoed past Katelyn’s room and into the half put-together nursery. The crib was in pieces on the floor looking like a tornado had opened the box instead of a human and Pete considered the instructions.

 

“Looks simple enough.” _I hope,_ he thought, remembering the disaster of Patrick’s desk...but this one wasn’t from Ikea. Kelsea settled into the rocking chair and started folding a pile of tiny baby onesies.

 

“So how’s life?” She asked, and Pete shrugged. They talked in low voices about Patrick’s school and his work at the gym. He told her about the support group and that he was thinking of trading in his truck. She told him about the short conversations with Long, and that she was afraid that he would miss the delivery and that she swore she was going to make him get a vasectomy when he got home. Soon enough, the crib was put together, the clothes were folded and in the tiny dresser, and he was hanging up the curtains when a wail sounded from the adjacent bedroom. Kelsea sighed, but Pete stopped her before she could haul herself out of the rocker.

 

“I’ll get her, don’t worry. You just relax.” She gave him a grateful smile and nodded as he padded from the room and peeked his head in. Katelyn stared at him from over the crib rail, hair plastered straight up from sleep and pink-cheeked from crying. She was glaring at him as he approached, murmuring baby-nonsense as he came to the crib and wondering if she’d smile if it was Patrick instead. But she held her arms up and he lifted her out, and felt his heart melt when she curled against him and started sucking her thumb noisily. He pressed a kiss to her head, breathing in that inexplicable _baby_ smell and headed back to the nursery. Passing a mirror in the hallway, he realized that she had fallen back asleep, mouth open in that totally committed way babies slept. For a long moment, he just looked at himself in the mirror...he had always known Patrick was good with kids, he was a _natural_ , even. But this...he considered Katelyn’s closed eyes, the slightly mushy feel of her probably-wet diaper against his arm and the easy way she sagged against him. This was different.

 

Shaking himself, he turned the corner into the nursery and snorted. Kelsea was fast asleep in the rocker, head tipped back as she napped with a hand protectively over her belly. Figuring sleep probably wasn’t something she came by easily, Pete turned and headed back downstairs. He could be a baby nap-pad for as long as he needed to be, he decided as he eased himself down on the couch. Katelyn took a deep breath as he adjusted his arm, but slept on...and he couldn't help himself. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he snapped a selfie and sent it to Patrick, then decided it was time to beat that level of Soda Crush that had been eluding him for a week.  

 

~//~

 

“Get up, you’re coming with me.”

 

Pete looked up from scrolling through facebook for the sixth time in an hour and realized Patrick was standing over him with his hands on his hips. “Huh?”

 

“I said, you’re coming with me. You’ve been the biggest Mopey McMope-fest I’ve ever seen since the gym is closed, and I’m over it.”

 

“ _Mopefest_ isn’t really a word…” He started, but then rolled to his feet when he saw the look on his husband’s face. “Okay, okay, fine. Where are we going?”

 

“The Preschool.” Patrick pointed him towards the bedroom. “I’ve been volunteering there, and you’re coming. Go get something that looks like you haven’t been wearing it for a week straight and that won’t make the parents think you’re homeless.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up to the school and Pete was being hustled inside as Patrick tried to keep his guitar out of the rain. He followed him through the maze of corridors that looked inexplicable, but clearly Patrick knew where they were going. A distant part of him whispered that he needed to keep track of the turns, to know the fastest exit route...but he pushed that away. Not anymore.

 

Then they were pushing open a classroom door covered in flowers, each bloom with a child’s face in the center and were greeted with cheering. Pete blinked as two kids ran over from a circle and tackled Patrick, and he realized that the rest of the class was looking at them expectantly.

 

“They’ve been waiting for you!” Pete recognized the teacher now as Maura, the lady who had taken over Patrick’s class when he returned to school, and now it all made sense. Patrick was a bundle of smiles and greetings as he settled into a toddler-sized plastic chair and took out his guitar.

 

“Hey everyone.” He smiled as he pulled out a tamborine, “I brought someone special with me today--this is my husband, Pete.” Waving like the world’s biggest idiot, Pete took the offered instrument and wondered what he’d do with it. But his musical ineptitude was saved from highlighting by a plastic bucket being passed around the circle by Maura, and before long each child had a kazoo, or a drum, or a shaker. He sat down in an open spot next to a little boy with wide brown eyes and tightly-coiled hair. For the next thirty minutes, he banged the tambourine mostly in time as they rolled through familiar songs--When the Saints’ Go Marching In, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and The Itsy Bitsy Spider seeming to be the favored ones.

 

“I didn’t realize you were doing that.” He asked as they walked out as the kids streamed outside to the playground for recess, and Patrick shrugged.

 

“It helps me towards the hours I need for graduation, and I miss them.”

 

“They’re super cool.” Pete stuck his hands in his pockets as they walked, thinking. “They sure love you.”

 

“It’s the guitar.”

 

~//~

 

Once the gym re-opened from the two-week-long renovation, life settled into a routine that Pete felt like he could actually get used to. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays he worked mornings at Orange Theory. Tuesdays and Thursdays he went with Patrick to Oceanview Preschool for music time. Sometimes, on the days when he didn’t have too much homework, they would both stay and read with the kids, or Pete would run around with them on the playground and play games. Their favorite was when he would pretend to be a dinosaur, stomping around and chasing the little pack of four year olds.

 

Over the weeks, a small boy named Lee came to be his buddy. He had reminded him of Little Carl at first, but Patrick had whispered to him one day that he had been diagnosed with the results of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, so he struggled with large motor skills and was easily frightened. Pete’s heart had broken at the thought, but the smile on Lee’s face when he helped him stack the foam blocks as high as he was in the corner of the room--far away from the tumult of children--had been worth the world. So Lee would sit next to him during music time and Pete would be sure to play his tambourine quietly to not startle him.

 

“Do you think the kids like Carl and Lee like me because there’s something...broken about me too?” He had asked one night as he and Patrick sat in the backyard, drinking a beer and looking at the night sky. Even in the dark, he could see the way Patrick’s brow had furrowed when he looked at him and he instantly regretted the question. But then slim fingers calloused from guitar strings laced with his, and tugged at him until he met Patrick’s gaze.

 

“ _None_ of you are broken. Look at Lee, he didn’t ask to have his mom drink while she was pregnant. You didn’t ask for that humvee to get blown up or the landing zone to have a pothole. But you’re all making something great out of life giving you the short straw, something that most other people never could have done.” Pete hummed and considered the big dipper, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. But then Patrick was talking again, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand. “Did you know that there’s a strong link between intelligence and mental illness? I read a study for my Abnormal Psychology class that says if you get straight A’s in high school, you’re four times more likely to develop bipolar.”

 

Pete snorted. “I almost didn’t graduate because I failed statistics, babe. I don’t think your argument holds there.”

 

“That’s not what I mean.” He could _hear_ him rolling his eyes. “Kids like Carl and Lee, what if we look at them as broken or... _less_. But they’re really just on a...they’re playing an instrument we can’t even hear. They’re seeing things we can’t even see.” He squeezed Pete’s hand. “Same goes for you. Maybe there’s something in your brain that meant you could live the life you lived, and do the things you had to do, where anyone else couldn’t have. So maybe sure, maybe it caught up with you, but you’re still on a different level either way.” There was silence for a long moment, and he heard Patrick shifting in his lawn chair. “That didn’t come out right but...you know what I mean. You’re not broken. You never were.”

 

He thought about that for a long minute...thought about the two SEALs who had made it all the way through training, only to break down crying for their mothers the first time they deployed--Brutus and Caldwell were their names. He had privately wondered why they hadn’t been able to handle it, and why the rest of them _could_. Why his team could see some of the worst things in the world in a six-month tour, and then come home to wives and children and families. They had always joked that there was something wrong with them all, that you had to be “a special kinda crazy” to do what they did...but maybe there _really_ was something to the concept. Maybe whatever it was that had cracked in the end had also kept him alive.

 

Pulling Patrick’s hand up, he pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Thanks.”

 

“Anytime.” His husband gave a wry grin as he took another sip. “It’s your tax dollars at work, teaching me all this stuff, you know. So...thanks for that.”

 

Pete snorted, thinking of his own GI Bill, unused because he couldn’t seem to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. But he pushed that thought away as a shooting star caught his eye. He made a wish...and for the first time in over a year, it wasn’t a plea to return to normal or to stop having panic attacks. It was for something else--something he didn’t dare say out loud.

  
  



End file.
